


The Outline of Our Lives

by RememberingEmbers



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, M/M, Multi, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 08:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10158149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RememberingEmbers/pseuds/RememberingEmbers
Summary: The skating community rallies in the aftermath of a brutal attack that suspends Yuuri's career and ends Phichit's. Victor struggles to put Yuuri back together. Victuuri/Phichit-centric, with supporting Chris, JJ, Seung Gil, and Otayuri. Dark fic. First chapter can be skipped.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is going to be a long, dark fic that involves explicit rape, rape recovery, and a hell of a lot of h/c. Please let me know if you think this is worth continuing, and have an amazing day!

"Fresh air!" exclaims Yuuri in his tourist-guidebook Korean ("You just said 'ozone,' but in a creepy way," Seung Gil informs him in English), then Yuuri and Phichit are spilling out the back door together, laughing and grabbing at each other and bumping hips as they stagger down the alley. Yuuri's got four drinks and a whole lot of dance in him: "Hurry," he urges as Phichit sucks in deep, giggly breaths, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Music crashes out behind them, and Yuuri makes a fist and extends random fingers, struggling for the sign of the horns. "This is my jam!"

"Every song tonight has been your jam," Phichit points out. "Put your middle finger down."

"DJ Yuuri!" says Yuuri. He seizes Phichit around the waist and twirls him; lets Phichit take the lead when he stumbles into a row of trash cans. "Yuuri van Buren. Yuuri Brings the Bass."

"Spin that shit," says Phichit, helping him to his feet.

"Op-oppa Yuuri style!"

That gets them laughing all over again, and they lean into each other, holding hands for balance. Phichit surges forward and kisses Yuuri hard, closed-mouthed and friendly. Yuuri kisses back. The two of them get affectionate when they're drunk, much to the delight of Victor—who is god knows where right now. Probably doing Jell-o shots off of Christophe's abs. Yuuri licks the taste of gin and margaritas out of Phichit's mouth and then pulls back, grinning. He's just parting his lips to say something when he hears it behind him:

"I love watching girls kiss."

Yuuri and Phichit turn. There're three guys standing there, two locals and a blond, like the beginning of a bad joke. They're all smoking. The guy in the blue baseball cap offers the pack to Phichit, who waves him off, chin high. He's grossed out by the girl comment. Yuuri would be too if he weren't so dizzy from turning too fast. He sticks out his tongue, hunches over a bit. Phichit rubs his back.

"You babes sit in sugar?" asks the blond. "Because you got some sweet little asses." He flicks his cigarette aside and slings a heavy elbow around Yuuri's shoulders, making his knees buckle a little.

Phichit gingerly picks up the sleeve of the man's coat and uses it to lift his arm off of Yuuri, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "We're going back inside," he says, huffing.

"No, stay here. Let's chat," says Blue Hat man.

Phichit starts around him, but he places a hand on the door, pinning it shut. There's a metallic _click_ as the lock latches.

It's only then that Yuuri starts getting little tingles of fear. All three men are huge, and they're too damn _close_ , boxing them into the small stairwell that leads back into the club. Phichit stares up at them through his eyelashes, not lifting his head. He's wearing his favorite silver leggings and a loose, oversized top that Blue tweaks a bit at the bottom, teasing. Phichit grabs his fingers, shoves them back. He resets one foot slightly in front of Yuuri, pushing him behind him. "Leave us alone," Phichit says, voice bobbing almost imperceptibly, but Yuuri hears it, and he knows that the men do, too.

It happens so fast.

Blue grabs Phichit by the wrists and drags him into an unwilling kiss. Phichit twists away, protesting, and that's when the blond's hand flashes out and across his face, heaving his whole arm into the blow. Phichit falls hard off the stairs. Yuuri hears the breath whoosh out of him. He starts forward to help him up, but the third, silent man seizes him around the waist and hauls him off his feet. Yuuri yells, thrashing.

"Put me down! Put me down! _Victor_ —"

"Toss him here," the blond urges, and suddenly Yuuri's being thrown back and forth between the laughing men, unable to get his footing. They don't let him fall, but they don't let him stand, either: they're shoving him around like a ragdoll, grabbing at his shorts, his hair, hauling his coat off his shoulders until it's tugging at his arms, restrictive as a straightjacket. Yuuri cries out. He can't help it. He only stops when he sees Blue place one tender foot in the center of Phichit's chest, pinning him in place as he reaches for the zipper on his own jeans.

"No!" Yuuri yelps. "Leave him alone! Phichit—please—"

"Please," Blondie mocks, in a sugary falsetto. "Please, please." He catches Yuuri by the front of his shorts and rips them open, baring his jutting hipbones, the very tops of his thighs. He hurls him to the asphalt. Yuuri is up on the rebound, elbows screaming with pain, and the man hits him in the face. He falls again. Hot, sticky blood trickles out of his nose, dampening his lips.

How did it get this bad this fucking _fast?_ Yuuri makes it two feet toward Phichit on his hands and knees before the third man picks him up by the pelvis, raising his ass enticingly. He flails. Through the space between Blondie's legs, he sees Blue yanking Phichit's shirt up under his armpits, baring his tight, rosy nipples. Phichit shrieks, kicking fruitlessly with both legs.

"Yuuri—"

"Phichit!"

Blondie seizes Yuuri's face. He jams his thumb hard at the juncture of Yuuri's jaws, forcing them apart. He's wearing a thick gold ring on his forefinger, and he feeds it into Yuuri's mouth, propping his teeth open as he reaches into his jeans and frees his fat, half-erect cock.

Yuuri starts screaming.

"Shut that bitch up!" Blue snaps. He's clawing at Phichit's leggings now, tugging them down around his thick, dark thighs. Yuuri's seen Phichit fully naked before, in the showers back in Detroit, but seeing him now in public with his shirt rucked up, he looks indecently exposed. The club's neons throw pink and blue light over him as Blue sinks one hand into the back of his underwear, fingers greedy between his buttocks. A second later, Phichit wails. Yuuri turns his head away.

Phichit's a virgin. Yuuri knows that for certain; remembers his wide, curious eyes when Yuuri shyly told him about his and Victor's first time. _Did it hurt?_ Phichit had asked.

 _No_ , said Yuuri. _Victor did it right_.

The blond forces his dick into Yuuri's mouth. Yuuri gags, coughing, but the man just keeps shoving it in, past his teeth and down his throat. Yuuri makes terrible, wet sounds as he struggles to accommodate his hard length. Behind him, the other man has shucked off his shorts and is slapping his own cock against Yuuri's ass, rubbing the damp head between his cheeks.

"Kid's not cherry," he says. His voice is deep, resonant. "Someone's already been hard at this cunt."

"Good," says the blond. "Means you don't have to break 'im in."

"That's the best part," Blue says. He's still scissoring Phichit open, fucking him on his fingers, rocking him back and forth against the pavement. His free hand is clamped over Phichit's mouth. Phichit stares up at Yuuri with watery, dazed eyes as the man fucks his face, Yuuri's tongue rancid with blood and sweat and precome.

 _Victor_ , he thinks as the bastard behind him pries his ass apart, cock head hot at Yuuri's entrance. _Victor, I'm sorry, it was supposed to be you—only you—_

He pushes in, groaning. Yuuri moans. The man begins fucking him, slow at first, then picking up speed until Yuuri's ass is making moist slapping sounds with every thrust. It's filthy. Whorish. Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut. The men are off sync, towing him back and forth between their cocks, making his world spin around in wide, drunken circles. He can't breathe. Can't think. The man in his ass grabs his wrists and yanks his arms up at treacherous, aching angles for leverage.

Before him, Blue's got Phichit's trembling legs up and apart, knees braced in the crooks of his elbows. He slicks his erection forward. It takes him four hard thrusts to get fully seated inside Phichit's virgin passage. Phichit's muffled screaming fades into wet, terrified sobbing as the man starts fucking him.

Yuuri chokes on a laugh. Tears trickle from the corners of his eyes. The blond tastes like he smells, sick and dirty and damp.

"You got a good mouth on you," he pants. "All hot and open for me. A slut's mouth."

"How's the little one?" asks the other man.

"Good," Blue groans. "Tight. Hey. Hey, how you liking it down there, bitch?"

He shifts his hand, and Phichit's voice rings out, quivering but strong. "F-fuck you!" Phichit sobs. "Fuck you and your pencil-dick! Can't get any willing, is that it? Have to take it out on kids half your age and size?"

Blue laughs, warm and dangerous. "Gonna regret that, you mouthy little cunt."

Yuuri feels the change rather than seeing it: there's a loaded, slow moment, and then Blue's moving between Phichit's legs like a fucking machine, and something gives. Phichit starts screaming bloody murder. It's a high, clear sound, piercing in a way that Yuuri's cries weren't, and Yuuri capitalizes on that, raising his own voice, shrieking as loud as he can around the man's engorged cock—

Something changes. The night air shifts, and the music grows abruptly louder, and then the back alley door is banging open and people are pouring out. Yuuri doesn't recognize anyone at first. It's a blur, a dream. Then he realizes it's Victor breaking for him, Victor and Yuri and fucking JJ, of all the people in the world, and then his mouth is free and he's choking in shallow, hysterical breaths and blood is pouring freely down his chin. The pressure in his ass disappears, leaving him horribly empty. He collapses to his knees. A second later Victor scoops him up, snatching him against his chest and into the folds of his jacket. He's trembling so bad that Yuuri wants absurdly to comfort him, but when he raises his hands, he sees they're shaking too—he stares at them as if they aren't his, the broken fingernails, the grit speckling his bleeding palms—

"Get off of him!" Yuri screams from somewhere in front him. "Get the fuck off of him, you sick fuck!"

Watching through hazy eyes, Yuuri sees Yurio hurl himself at Blue, biting and scratching. Blue wrenches himself out of Phichit. Wheels around and belts Yurio soundly across the face. He's not even done straightening from it when Otabek punches him, knocking him clean off his feet, and then there's _chaos_ —a scuffle is carrying the bastards and Otabek and JJ down the alley, and Christophe is shouting something on his phone, and Seung Gil is kneeling over Phichit, eyes wide and horrified—

"Sweetheart," Victor chokes out. His voice is full of tears. Why? _Why?_

Yuuri tunnels in on the sound, and the rest of the noise fades away as Victor begins humming, low and soft and pretty as red and blue lights cut through the evening.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mentions of rape, serious injury, blood, language. Slight Otabek/Yuri and pre-Seung Gil/Phichit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for the incredibly kind reception! I hope that this story does not disappoint; we've still got a lot of ground to cover. Please feel free to tell me where to go and what you want to see. I hope wherever you are that your day is going well.

This year, Katsuki Yuuri watches the Grand Prix from his Korean hospital room, holding Victor's hand so tightly it shakes.

The event is a goddamn mess. JJ chokes. _Otabek_ chokes, and the commentators fill the empty block left by Yuuri and Phichit's absences by hitting hard on their falls, their missed quads, the cruel analyses of their careers' downward trajectories. The replays are brutal. Christophe squeaks by with a few uncharacteristic doubles and one solid quad, earning silver, and Yurio takes the gold, the fury in him fueling David Arnold's Midsummer Waltz to heights so intense that Yuuri's throat starts aching. Yuri cries all the way through his free skate. His ending close-up is all red eyes and tear tracks, a scowl when he realizes that the media is eating this up: Mysterious Tragedy Strikes Grand Prix Skaters. Katsuki and Chulanont MIA from Major Competition. Celestino and Victor offer no comment, and Yuuri holes himself away from the press, shades in his room pulled all the way down as he lies there under the heap of blankets Victor fetched for him.

He hadn't known he was bleeding between the legs that night until Victor's handkerchief came away saturated with blood. Didn't even register the pain until he was in the hospital, and the nurse told him he needed stitches, that he had significant rectal tearing and he'd sprained a hip and his nose was soundly broken. The dark, red-purple bruises under his eyes look like a mask. He's in enough pain that skating is impossible. _Walking_ is impossible.

And he got off easy.

Phichit has a pelvic fracture. "It's not an injury you can walk away from as a skater," Victor explained, face pale. "Not with that kind of muscular and nerve damage. It's like a knee. It's never really the same again after a trauma."

"You're telling me that that guy literally fucked him until he broke," Yuuri had replied, and the laughter that spilled out of him was unbidden, terrible. He hasn't had a chance to talk to Phichit since that evening—Phichit's only been truly conscious once, and Celestino, watching over him that shift, has been tight-lipped about his mental condition—and that's just as well. The guilt consumes Yuuri. He wishes he could just fade away until he's nothing.

Why had he been drinking so heavily that night, two days before a competition? Why had he worn those tiny shorts, and separated himself from Victor, and forced Phichit to come outside with him? He might as well have done— _that_ to Phichit himself.

No one has used the words yet, least of all Yuuri. They're still unthinkable.

Yuuri sleeps fitfully on and off all day, not speaking or eating. His tray sits beside him until the seaweed soup is cold and Victor has reluctantly eaten the rice, since he refuses to go to the cafeteria. Victor talks, but doesn't demand answers. He sings a little bit in his clear, cultured voice. "You're beautiful," he whispers at one point, when he thinks Yuuri is asleep. His lips are warm in Yuuri's hair. "You're perfect, my sun. I will never leave you."

He only really wakes up when Yuri kicks the door open and smacks a bouquet of freesias across his chest. He startles badly, but Yuri remains unmoved. Yuuri likes that.

"What time is it?" he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

"Late," says Yuri gruffly.

Yuuri tries to sit up, grimacing. His body is screaming at him. Victor reaches to help him, and Christophe materializes to catch his other elbow, the two of them propping him up against a pillow. Yuri glares at him, and Yuuri squints back. It's dark. No light leaks out from behind the pulled shades. His fellow skaters have filled the room, and they're standing there in silhouette, like gargoyles. Chris, Otabek, JJ. Yuri.

"Yurio, congratulations on—" he begins, but Yuri cuts him off fast: "Oh, shove it, Katsudon. It was hardly a victory without you. Couldn't you have at least put in an appearance?"

"And done what?" JJ asks, scoffing. "Bled artistically?"

"No one asked you, Fourth Place!" Yuri bites back.

"Children," says Victor, and there's actually an edge of warning there that makes them subside. Yuri kicks off his shoes and clambers onto the bed next to Yuuri, crossing his ankles and placing his hands behind his head. He doesn't look at him.

"Are you going to eat your soup?" he asks.

"Oh, don't eat that, Yurio. It's been there since dinner," says Victor.

"Damn. I'm starving."

Yuuri realizes then that they haven't even been back to their hotel yet. They came directly from the closing ceremony and post-event press engagements; they're all carrying their bags, and they look like they're ready to drop. A huge, sharp surge of guilt stabs Yuuri in the chest. He makes to cover his head with his blanket, but Yuri catches it and wrestles it out of his hands.

"It's just us," says Yuri. It comes out bizarrely soft, choked. He clears his throat. "Just us."

JJ hits the lights. Yuuri ignores the low gasp that ripples through the room. He can't imagine how bad he looks. He turns to Victor first, sees his swollen eyes, and looks away toward Yuri instead. The sight doesn't bring him any more comfort.

Cleansed free of his stage makeup, Yuri's got a bruise on his face that trails all the way from the corner of his mouth to his temple. It's obviously a handprint. The memory floods back in a numb, white rush: that bastard in the blue baseball cap landing that one cruel blow on Yuri, buffeting him into the brick wall of the alley. His arm is probably scraped up, too. And he hadn't even been actively trying to _hurt_ Yuri. What the fuck kind of damage must Phichit have? How had he attacked Phichit viciously enough to fracture his pelvis; how had Yuuri let that happen to him?

Tears spring to Yuuri's eyes and he's crying before he even really realizes it. Sobs wrack him. He clasps his hands together and lowers his head toward Yuri, unable to meet his gaze.

"I'm sorry," he tells him. Then, to the room at large: "I'm sorry, everyone. Please forgive me."

"The fuck," says JJ in a thin voice, and you know it's bad when _JJ_ is thrown off by theatrics. Victor seizes Yuuri's face.

" _Yuuri_. Look at me."

Yuuri does his best, but can't quite manage it. The shame swallows him, and he tries to turn away, but Victor's hands are firm.

"Yuuri, you have nothing to apologize for. Do you understand? None of this is your fault."

"My drinking," Yuuri sobs. "My clothes—"

" _No_. None of it." Victor's voice could cut glass. He presses his forehead to Yuuri's, stroking his hair back, and switches to clumsy Japanese. "I love you, Katsuki Yuuri. I would die to take back what happened to you."

"I would too," says Yuuri in English. He accepts the wad of tissue that Yuri is wordlessly holding out to him and wipes his face. His nose aches horribly when he touches it, and he closes his eyes, absurdly grateful for the pain. He should pay for it somehow, at least. _You did this. You deserve this_. A wave of self-disgust rolls over him. God, everyone _saw_ him. They saw him with a cock in his mouth and one in his ass, his shorts around his ankles, getting fucked like the bitch he is. How is he even supposed to look at them again? He curls against Victor, hiding. Victor embraces him, his own shoulders shaking with emotion.

"We should go," says Chris, understanding. "We'll be in the waiting room."

"No, just go back to your hotels," Yuuri says, voice muffled in Victor's shirt. "You must be exhausted."

"We're not leaving you," says Otabek. It's the first thing he's said since they entered the room, and it's solid, inarguable. He clasps Yuuri's shoulder with a warm, broad hand, his knuckles splotched with bruises, then offers Yuri an elbow to help him clamber off the bed. Yuri goes reluctantly, pausing to jam his feet back into his sneakers and snag the bowl of cold seaweed soup off the bedside table.

"Katsudon," Yuri says before he leaves, not looking at him. "No one expects you to be okay. So, uh. Maybe don't be such a dick to yourself."

Yuuri snorts a soft laugh into Victor's shoulder, then winces. "My nose."

Rolling his eyes, Yuri steps into the hall and shuts the door quietly behind him.

Alone again with Victor, Yuuri lets himself cry for a long time. Victor just holds him. Yuuri only starts to realize how bad it is when Victor doesn't make any jokes, doesn't try to feed him any platitudes. The first day was somehow easy, all business—surgery for the tearing, a few stitches in each hand for his lacerated palms, Seung Gil translating a statement to the police that Yuuri handled with detached matter-of-factness, numbed by alcohol and denial. _It's all sort of a blur_ , he remembers saying, still drunk. _Ugh, I need to sleep. There's a big competition coming up._

Even if he had been able to skate, he'd woken up too late, when the event was already underway. And even that hadn't really driven it home. He was somehow sure that if he kept sleeping, he'd wake up eventually and realize it was all a nightmare; that it was morning and Victor was buzzing with excitement and it was time to win the gold at the Grand Prix. But forty-eight hours have passed now, and he's still here. His nose is still broken. He's still lying on a towel to soak up the stray trickles of blood, and Victor is still not smiling.

"Are you mad at me?" Yuuri whispers at last, voice hoarse.

"God in heaven. _No_ ," says Victor vehemently.

"You sound mad."

"I'm not mad at you, my star."

"I'm no star," says Yuuri bitterly. "I didn't even compete today."

"My star in the sky," Victor clarifies. He frowns. "You thought I meant…?"

Yuuri pauses. For the last three years, he'd thought the term of endearment was related to his now-uncertain career. To be compared to something celestial, after all that has happened—he surges up to kiss Victor, ignoring the pain that crawls through him as they bump noses. Victor tastes stale and plain and Yuuri wishes he didn’t have to break away to breathe. He sobs softly this time, slow enough that Victor has time to thumb away his tears as they fall. He kisses Victor's fingertips as they brush against his mouth.

"I can't," he says, crying. He's not even sure what he's referring to. "I can't, Victor. It's just—it's all so—"

"It's okay," says Victor. "You don't have to do anything right now."

"I'm so ashamed."

Victor doesn't seem to know how to respond to that immediately, but he doesn't invalidate the emotion, which is what Yuuri was afraid of. "I hate that you feel that way," Victor says at last, careful, "but it's not your shame. You did nothing wrong. And all of us who saw you that night are your friends, Yuuri. Our only concern was for your wellbeing."

"It's just that—"

"It doesn't change how we see you. However long it takes, we'll—"

"JJ saw my butt," Yuuri blurts.

That makes Victor stop short, blink, then sputter on a laugh that he tries to turn into a cough. "I'm sure he would gladly show you his butt to even the score," he says primly.

Yuuri glares at him, but a small smile creeps up onto his lips too, though it feels tired and wry. He nuzzles against Victor until his head rests in the crook of his shoulder, raising one hand to examine it in the light. His wrist is badly bruised. One of his nails is torn to the quick, and three dark stitches cross the lifeline on his palm. The sight makes him feel tired, filthy. Tears prickle at his eyes. Victor reaches out and twines their fingers, then brings his bandaged knuckles to his mouth to lay soft kisses on them, one at a time.

"Tell me what you need, baby," Victor whispers.

Yuuri closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again, resolute.

"I need to see Phichit."

*

According to the nurses, Phichit's been moved from the emergency ward to a small room on the third floor. They offer Yuuri a wheelchair, but Victor declines. He gently lifts Yuuri into his arms and carries him bridal style the whole way, holding his loose hospital gown considerately shut. They run into Seung Gil as they exit the elevator: he's grasping a similarly untouched lunch tray, and he's holding himself as if he's sore, despite his not having been a participant in the Grand Prix. He nods when he sees Yuuri. "How are you?" he asks. His voice is hoarse, softer than Yuuri remembers it being the previous night.

"Okay," says Yuuri. "How is Phichit?"

Seung Gil shrugs one shoulder. "You both look like shit."

Before this trip to Seoul, Yuuri might've deflated at the comment. Now he just smiles a little. Seung Gil had given them a proper if somewhat stiff welcome to his home country, driving down to meet them from Gangwon-do, and had balked spectacularly when JJ accused him of being hospitable. It was kind of cute, really. He'd made a show of being especially curt for the rest of the evening. The next night, though, he had thawed out again. He assisted them with their poor Korean. He'd even danced briefly with Phichit at the club before they'd begun drinking, hands above his waist, and Victor had leaned in to Yuuri and murmured, _Is there something there?_ and Yuuri had wondered too, wondered if maybe—

—not that it matters much anymore. Kind of hard to imagine him reading love poems to Phichit after hearing him deliver hours of police statements on Yuuri's behalf, voice neutral, neither strong nor wavering as he recited words aloud that Yuuri could barely bring himself to think. Even now, Seung Gil's expression gives nothing away. Yuuri studies him in profile, his handsome brow, his full, pursed lips. He feels a swell of gratitude.

"Thank you for staying with him," says Yuuri. He would bow if Victor weren't holding him. "Thank you for being there."

"He was never alone," says Seung Gil. "Cialdini is with him."

"Still."

Seung Gil lowers his eyes. Hesitates. Then he says, in one muted rush, "He's not okay, Yuuri. He knows he might not skate competitively again, and he's acting—wrong."

Yuuri's throat tightens. "Do you think he'll see me?"

"I don't know. Don't be surprised if he doesn't."

There's nothing else to say. Yuuri nods his head in acknowledgement, and Seung Gil nods back, pressing the button for his floor. They maintain eye contact until the elevator doors slide shut. Yuuri glances up at Victor then, for strength and for stability, and Victor presses a dry kiss to his forehead before carrying him the rest of the way down the hall.

He lets Yuuri knock.

Celestino opens the door after a few moments. For the first time since Yuuri has known him, he looks haggard, old. When he registers Yuuri's presence, he gasps. "Yuuri," he murmurs, pulling the door halfway shut behind him.

"Celestino-san," says Yuuri.

Celestino hugs him. Yuuri clings back, eyes squeezed shut, reveling in the man's embrace. For so many years, Celestino served as a second father to him, and cutting off contact remains one of the hardest decisions of his life. Celestino makes it quick, only cursorily sentimental: it's one of the reasons Yuuri loves him. "There are no words," he says simply. "I am tremendously sorry for what happened to you. To the both of you."

"Thank you," says Yuuri. He tries to peek over his shoulder. "Phichit?"

"Not good," he says, low. Then he clears his throat, swings the door open the rest of the way. "Phichit, you've got guests."

Phichit's cheery voice rings out, chilling Yuuri to the core: "Send them in!"

Victor carries Yuuri inside. There's a shock of white fluorescence: unlike Yuuri's room, Phichit has all of his lights on, and they have to blink against them as their eyes adjust. When Yuuri's vision finally settles, he feels his body start to tremble uncontrollably.

Phichit's blankets are folded up to his navel, but horrible metal rods protrude from the crests of his hips, which are bruised almost black. Bandages surround the incision sites. Once of his wrists is in brace, and he's got purpling on his face to match Yurio's, so clearly a handprint—it's obviously paining him to smile, but he's doing it anyway. One of his eye sockets is badly swollen. He's got a split lip. When he sees it's Yuuri, he excitedly spreads his arms for a hug, drowning in the long sleeves of one of Celestino's cardigans. Victor deposits Yuuri into the chair by his bed. He can tell by the stiffness of his arms that he's just as stunned as Yuuri is.

"Phichit," Yuuri manages. He leans in to hold him, feels the tension of Phichit's body as he tries to force himself to act casual. "Phichit, oh my god."

"You look _terrible_ ," Phichit tells him.

"You—you look—" Yuuri can't even finish the thought. 'Terrible' doesn't even begin to cover it; Phichit looks fucking _broken_.

"Forgive the cliché, but you should see the other guy," Phichit chirps. "Otabek did a number on him. Shattered one of his cheekbones, dislocated his jaw—I mean, he got me good, but at least he didn't eff with my bone structure. I'm gonna stay beautiful 'til the day I die. Which is not today, Yuuri. Not today."

Yuuri would be applauding his exultance if he felt that any part of it was genuine. Phichit's not stupid. He must know how bad it is. Yuuri covers his eyes, beginning to shake with tears, and feels an outright sob jerk out of him when Phichit starts stroking his back with his good hand to comfort him.

"Hey. It's okay, Yuuri," Phichit says softly. "It's okay. We're both fine."

 _We're not fine!_ Yuuri wants to scream. _You were—_ we _were_ —

Raped.

They'd been raped. It's the first time Yuuri allows himself to use that word, and it breaks something inside him. He throws his arm around Phichit's neck, suddenly unable to even cry, and Phichit—Phichit just makes a small, surprised noise and beings to pet Yuuri's sweat-matted hair. As if nothing has changed. As if they haven't been publically attacked outside a club, their clothes fucking _torn_ off of them, Yuuri's mouth forced open around a stranger and Phichit's virginity, his first time—that quiet, precious gift of him—

Phichit starts talking again; a strange, avoidant stream of conversation, touching on the issue with the barest of fingertips: "JJ gave me a recording of his new theme song, but he changed the 'JJ' to 'Phichit' in this weird electronic voice simulator thing. It was cute. He tried. And Christophe gave me his bouquet! Did Yuri give you his? He said he was going to. I'm so sorry we missed the Grand Prix this year, but there will be others! Oh—I wonder what our fans are saying? Do you think they're upset? Let's see—"

"Phichit," says Victor, because Yuuri is beyond words, but he's too slow to slide Phichit's phone out of his reach.

He scrolls eagerly through his feed, eyes bright. "Oh gosh, they're so worried," he says. "Hashtag 'men's-singles-mia.' Hashtag 'whereos-the-eros?' Yuuri, we have to let them know we're all right! Come here. Selfie!"

"Phichit-kun, I—"

"Selfie, Yuuri!"

Yuuri leans in. He doesn't even bother to try to smile. Phichit does, though, and Yuuri can hear his jaw creak as he forces it, feels the first tear slip from the corner of Phichit's bruised eye and slide down his cheek. _Click_. The shutter sound effect echoes too loudly in the silent room. Phichit, still stubbornly smiling, lowers his phone and brings it close to his face, thumbing to his album.

They wait. Victor takes Yuuri's fingers between his own, and Yuuri squeezes back hard, his other hand ready on Phichit's shoulder.

"Oh," says Phichit, his voice breaking. "Oh, we—w-we look worse than I thought we did. Way worse. Yuuri, your lips—they're all _bruised_ , and—"

The phone slides from his grasp.

"Yuuri," Phichit sobs.

Yuuri tries to rise from his chair alone and cries out. Pain courses through him; Victor has to grab his hips to stabilize him. He helps Yuuri stand, supporting most of his weight until Yuuri is properly on the hospital bed, and Yuuri surges forward, gathering Phichit into his arms. "Shh," he whispers, rocking him back and forth. "Shhh, Phichit, it's okay." And how quickly the same platitudes pour out of his own mouth, he thinks as he strokes Phichit's hair smooth, letting his friend lean into the crook of his neck as he begins, finally, to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mention of past rape, aftermath, STIs, discussion of self-injury, and profanity (most of it the word 'ass').

An American skating forum is ground zero for the sexual assault speculation. After that, it's a fucking feeding frenzy: Phichit hasn't posted anything on Instagram in a record five days, someone spotted Yuri's handprint-shaped bruise, and Yuuri himself got caught leaving the hospital with Victor, a bad limp, and still-swollen lips. Which'd be nothing if the pictures of them at the club hadn't surfaced: Yuri and Otabek shyly holding hands. JJ toasting with a B-52. Yuuri and Phichit dancing hip-to-hip under the strobe lights, laughing, their clothes too tight and too pretty. Yuuri thanks god that the mystery photographer hadn't stuck around long enough to see the ambulances, because at that point, the evidence of the attack that night would've been undeniable. As it is, Yuuri thinks they might be able to play it off as a regular bar fight if they play their cards just right.

"You don't look natural," says Victor, studying him through the camera phone's display. "Maybe don't smile. Make it look like you're trying to be hardcore."

Uncertain, Yuuri flashes upside-down peace signs.

"Okay, yeah, no. Smile," Victor says, and takes a picture.

He hands the phone off to Yuuri, who studies the photo: he looks rough, but nowhere near as bad as he had that night. The bruises have dulled to a subtler, mottled yellow. More importantly, he seems nonchalant: nice smile, taped-up nose; nope, no rape over here. Just a rambunctious young adult who made some really poor decisions before a major sporting event. "This'll work," he says. He goes to upload it, throws a filter over it so the discolorations are vivid and the cold sores he has recently developed are minimized. Hashtag bar brawl. "What should I say in the caption?"

"'You should see the other guy,'" suggests Victor.

That reminds Yuuri of Phichit, and he squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing hard against the lump that rises in his strangely sore throat. Victor sees immediately that he has been affected and reaches in to embrace him from behind, treating the tender space behind his ear to a soft kiss.

"I've said something wrong. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." Yuuri sighs, straightens, and returns to his phone. Caption: 'Baby's first bar fight. So sorry about the #GrandPrix. Needed a little time to explore my inner #badass.' He shows the draft to Victor, who shrugs.

"It doesn't sound like you, but missing the competition was uncharacteristic too, so..."

Yuuri posts it. Almost instantly it gets several likes, one of them from Christophe. That kind of boosts his street cred, right? Having a witness to corroborate the story? He twists around in his chair to lean into Victor's arms, too tired to cry. He's been doing enough of that lately. Making up for all the crying that Phichit _isn't_ doing.

After his initial breakdown, Phichit's been back to hardcore denial. He's still in the hospital. A physical therapist is helping him with his movement, but it's a slow, painful process, and Phichit doesn't seem very motivated to walk again anytime soon. He's sent Yuuri a few pictures from bed; flowers that he's received from friends, bleak hospital lunches, Seung Gil dozing in the chair beside him. His text messages are equally distant. 'Tired this afternoon,' he writes. 'Supposed to be sunny. Lunch today is kimchi and eggs.' It's a very different, very vague Phichit, disquieting in its impersonality, and Yuuri finds himself selfishly avoiding him. He doesn't think his presence there would help much anyway. Every time they get close to talking about it, Seung Gil reports, Phichit just changes the subject.

Most of the skating community members have booked hotel rooms for the next few weeks in a show of solidarity. Yakov had to leave on his original ticket to take care of things at home, but the rest of them—Chris, Otabek, Yuri, Celestino, even JJ—are still in town. Celestino has taken to bringing Yuuri and Victor breakfast each morning, bean sprout soup and coffee and rice. Good thing, too, or Yuuri probably wouldn't be eating. He feels sick on guilt. Victor's told him over and over that the attack wasn't his fault, but Yuuri can't shake the feeling that he was responsible for what happened to them.

"You're doing it again," says Victor, jarring him. "You're blaming yourself."

They've had this conversation so many times before that Yuuri doesn't even need to reply. He nestles closer to Victor, abruptly exhausted.

"Would you like to visit Phichit today?"

"Only if he asks me to." Underneath the self-hatred is the unwilling, intimate knowledge of Phichit's body, the fact that they were forced to see each other during intercourse. Yuuri wonders if Phichit feels as overexposed as he does. He checks his phone, clearing his throat. He feels like he's getting sick. "Post's getting a lot of likes."

Also some skeptical, terrible replies. Validstrong50 says, _'yuuris badass and i'm the king of botswana.'_ Summersnoopie says, _lips look swollen. someone punch you in the face with their dick?'_ Yuuri tries to ignore those comments, despite the way they twist his stomach. There's no point in replying. People will believe what they want to believe; Yuuri's only job is to not supply them with any more evidence.

He's still looking at his phone when it rings in his hands, making him jump. The caller ID says it's Seung Gil. He lets it ring a few times before he answers, steeling himself.

"Hello?"

"Have you kissed Victor recently?" is Seung Gil's greeting.

Yuuri blinks, staring up at Victor. "Um—?"

"Don't kiss him," he says flatly. "You've got oral gonorrhea."

After a loaded moment, Yuuri laughs.

It's apparently a pretty cold, chilling sound, because Victor takes his hands, alarmed, and Seung Gil breaks off mid-sentence. At Yuuri's request, owing to the language barrier, Seung Gil has been operating as his medical intermediary, which means he pretty much knows Yuuri's blood type, when he's bleeding, where, and how much. They've been waiting for his STI tests to come back for a few days now. No wonder he keeps getting the weird sores around his lips. He only knows what's going on because of his old health classes in Detroit; knowledge he never thought he'd need later.

Yuuri had just assumed he'd be clean. He hadn't realized it could get any worse.

"Okay," he says, with preternatural calm. "How about Phichit?"

"No anomalies in his bloodwork."

"Good. That's good." So the carrier had been the man who got into Yuuri's mouth. Thank god he hadn't touched Phichit. "How is he doing today?"

Seung Gil hesitates. "The same. Yuuri, do you understand what I'm saying?"

"About the gonorrhea," says Yuuri. "Yes."

Victor straightens, but Yuuri can tell from his expression that he doesn't know that word. He leans in, and Yuuri jerks away, afraid that he's going for a kiss. It's hard not to hurt from the look of confusion and apology that Victor flashes him. Yuuri curls in on himself, drawing his knees to his chest.

"I have a sexually transmitted infection in my mouth," he tells Victor, not looking at him. "We can't kiss. Seung Gil, is there treatment?"

"You'll come in for one injection, then oral tablets. The kissing thing is just a precaution; most sources say it can't spread that way, but—"

"I'm not getting anywhere near Victor while I'm this disgusting," says Yuuri calmly.

Seung Gil makes a noise of frustration and disagreement, but Victor is louder: "You are not disgusting," he says hotly. "No part of you could ever be disgusting."

"Tell that to my blisters."

"Yuuri—"

"Thank you," Yuuri says to Seung Gil, and hangs up. He unravels himself from the chair and walks toward the bathroom, past Victor, who clearly wants to stop him, but doesn't. Yuuri appreciates that. He closes the door, locks it, and begins stripping himself of clothing.

He's only worn baggy items lately, which makes it easy. He shrugs off his oversized sweater and steps out of the sweatpants the hospital provided for him, then the slippers, then his boxers. Stands naked in front of the mirror. _This is my body_ , he thinks, studying himself: his hands, his chest, his stomach, his bruised hips and waistline; his sturdy, tapered legs. _This is my face_. The eyes, the healing nose. His mouth, dotted with sores, and the white-speckled tonsils that show when he parts his lips and makes an aah sound. He clears his throat and stares at himself for a long moment before reaching back for his razor to catch the bit of stubble that's gathering on his chin.

His hand grazes the empty shelf. He turns to look, frowning, and that's when he realizes Victor has removed all the sharp objects. Even the nail files and clippers are gone.

"Victor, what the hell," he snaps, throwing the door open.

Victor is holding one of Yuuri's button-ups by the shoulders, preparing to fold it. He looks up, questioning.

"My razor," Yuuri says.

"Oh," says Victor, laughing nervously. He drops the shirt and reaches back to fuss open a drawer. Yuuri hears a tinkle of metal inside, and then Victor's holding out the razor, no protest in his expression. That deflates Yuuri a little. He goes to snap it out of his hand and finds his fingers lingering on Victor's, aching for contact.

"Why?" he asks softly. "What were your implications in hiding that? What did you think I'd do?"

"I didn't know," says Victor. "I didn't want to find out."

"I'm not going to hurt myself, Victor."

Victor places his hands on Yuuri's hips, and he's suddenly, horribly aware of his nudity. He feels himself shrinking in on himself again. Tears spring to his eyes. Victor shushes him, leaning in to kiss his trembling eyelids. "You say you're okay," Victor replies, "but you don't eat. You don't sleep. You don't talk to me about how you're feeling, and I can't even begin to guess. You shake all the time now."

"Do I?"

"You do." He raises Yuuri's hands in his own. To Yuuri's surprise, they are quivering.

"Oh," says Yuuri, voice small.

Moving slowly, so as not to spook him, Victor picks the shirt up again and gently drapes it around Yuuri's shoulders, pulling it shut. After so many days of loose sweaters, the fabric feels strange, stiff, but he's grateful to have the chill of air off his skin. Victor guides him to the bed and pulls him down on top of it. When he's properly settled into the mattress, Victor leans down to sort out the blankets they kicked off overnight, folding them over Yuuri before sliding in beside him. He leans in to kiss him. Yuuri shies away.

"Not on the lips."

"That's right, sorry. This is going to be hard." Victor strokes his hair back instead, kissing his brow, just above his glasses. "Let's stay in bed all day," he says. "Play footsie. Order room service."

"I like the way you think," says Yuuri, feeling a rare, honest smile tugging at his lips. He starts patting around. "My phone—"

"You probably left it in the bathroom. No more phone for you. Any social media interaction you need, you can get it through v-nikiforov."

"You don't even tweet these days."

"For you, I'll start anew."

He loses Victor for a few moments as he catches up on his feeds. He flexes his toes and squirms. Now that he knows he's shaking, he feels hyperaware of it: Victor's right; he hasn't been sleeping lately. Just can't do it. When it gets dark, he starts thinking about the Grand Prix, about the routine to Albinoni's Oboe Concerto in D Minor that he never got to skate. His theme was 'Emergence,' perfect with the Allegro. A new beginning for one of his last seasons. If he's anything like the ever-enduring Christophe, he's got one or two years left in him, but he's not counting on much beyond that. Not like Phichit, who still has a bright career ahead.

Had—?

Yuuri's mind refuses to absorb that. He rolls over, finds Victor smiling at his phone.

"Look," he says, showing Yuuri the screen.

He's on Instagram. At first Yuuri thinks he's going to show him a comment on his own post, just barely visible at the bottom of the screen, but then he sees Yuri's update: it's a selfie of him and Otabek in profile, Yuri's good side showing, the two of them nervously touching lips. Yuri's eyes are half open, eyelashes lowered demurely, but Otabek's eyes are passionately closed. The sun rises behind them. _#InstagramOfficial,_ Yuri has captioned, followed by a series of weirdly-curated emojis. Yuuri's favorite is the "( ﾟﾛﾟ)" one. Like, what's that supposed to mean in this context? If he didn't know Yuri personally, he'd think that the famed Russian Tiger was actually admitting to being openly terrified at the prospect of being in an actual relationship.

Yuuri takes Victor's phone to check Otabek's reply. Otabek has only posted a picture of a concrete bench with a cat emoji. Typical, somehow, even without knowing him well.

Victor eagerly snags his phone back, dials, and hits the speaker button. A few rings later, Yuri says, "What?"

"Copacetic!" Victor cheers.

"I'm not sure you're using that—" Yuri begins, nervous and grouchy, but Victor's already steamrolling him with: "I knew you and that boy had something special going! How did it come about? Did he give you roses?" followed by rapid-fire Russian. Yuuri catches the words 'bear' and 'onion,' and something that translates roughly to 'bitch chair.' He grins, nuzzling sleepily against Victor's chest. He loves listening to the low rumble of his laughter. He drifts off. He has no dreams; his sleep is shallow and colorless. 

When he wakes up, he has no sense of how much time has passed, and Yuri is saying, "How's Katsudon?"

Victor hesitates, glancing down at Yuuri, who's too heavy with sleep to move. "Not copacetic," he says, quiet. There's a beep as he takes Yuri off of speakerphone, but Yuuri can still hear him. His voice is unnaturally sharp, ringing out in the silence.

"That word again," Yuri complains. "Well, of course he's not okay. Is he having nightmares?"

"He isn't sleeping much. He's napping now."

"Good. He needs to build up his strength again. Seeing him acting all defeated and shit just makes me want to kick his ass."

"Oh, how magnanimous of you."

"Shut up."

"No, really. Usually you don't even bother kicking asses; this is a major step for you. Would you kick Otabek's ass?"

"It's too soon to be talking about ass in terms of our relationship," Yuri snaps back.

"I really enjoy hearing you say that. 'Relationship.' It sounds so lovely, doesn't it?"

Yuri is quiet for a long moment. "It’s not bad."

Yuuri drowses again. Victor's fingers thread through Yuuri's hair, tender and loving, and Yuuri wishes he were awake enough to arch into the touch.

This time, he does dream. He dreams he's grinding with Phichit at the club again, laughing, Phichit's face sparkling with mischief as he hauls Yuuri into a spin and dip. _There's no 'south' Detroit,_ he's saying, giggly. _That's just effing Canada_. And Yuuri's laughing too, and he kisses Phichit, and he reaches for his hips and sees the protruding rods—the black-purple bruises, the incisions, the blood-soaked bandages—

"Tell him something for me," says Yuri, stirring Yuuri again from sleep.

"Yes?" says Victor, hushed.

"And I don't want you to ask anything."

"Okay. I won't."

Yuri takes a deep breath. There's a long, loaded beat of silence. "Tell him," he says at last, voice fragile, "that when I was raped, it helped to take showers. Really hot or really cold. Both helped."

"Oh, Yuri," says Victor softly, brittle and miserable.

"Just tell him." Then Yuri's clearing his throat, taking on his usual tough affectations. "I have to go. Otabek is waiting. We're going to get lunch together. His ass took so long getting dressed today that we missed free breakfast at the hotel."

Victor laughs a strained laugh. "Thought you said it was too soon to be talking about asses."

"It's unavoidable, isn't it? Butts are such a well-rounded topic." Yuri snickers, and Victor joins him, his laughter this time a lot more natural. "Catch you later, old man. We'll have a meal, Otabek's treat."

"It will be nice to see you both. Goodbye, Yurio."

"Mm." 

He hangs up. Victor takes a long breath through his nose, then Yuuri can feel his gaze on him, warm and worried. His fingers resume their stroking, gentle on Yuuri's scalp. Safe, Yuuri sleeps again.

No dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a billion times for all of your incredible support!! Feel free to leave me comments about what you would like to see; my outline is loose enough to accommodate some extra information. Hope you are doing well, and have an amazing day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mention of past noncon, STI, language, recreational drug use, sexual acts, tigers. But not sexual acts WITH tigers.

With no context, Seung Gil sends a group message at 4am that lists only the name of a breakfast café in Seoul and the time "0800." Seven minutes later, it's followed by a "meet?" so grudging that its sourness comes across even in text. No doubt the almost-friendly addendum was Phichit's influence. _Kk, see you then_ , Yuuri replies. _Will P be there?_

Seung Gil doesn't respond to that one. Yuuri guesses that that means no.

By the time he and Victor reach the restaurant, most of their friends have already gathered in a corner table: Celestino's on a flight back home, but there's Otabek, Yuri looking rumpled and half-asleep, Chris and JJ in very similar white button-up shirts. " _You_ change," JJ is grousing when they approach, self-consciously smoothing his lapels. "You're the one who always carries around an extra shirt for some goddamn reason."

"One never knows when a situation might require a change of wardrobe." Christophe, clearly enjoying himself, takes a very leisurely sip from his mug and smiles up at Yuuri. "Ah, good morning, Yuuri. Who wore it better?"

JJ raises his sunglasses—which he's wearing indoors, yes—to flash him a winning wink.

"Uh," says Yuuri helplessly, "I really don't, um—I mean—"

"You change!" JJ barks, caving.

"Boys, boys. You're both gorgeous," Victor says, laughing. He pulls out Yuuri's chair before sitting down at the edge of the table, nodding toward the empty seat beside him. "Seung Gil wouldn't be so rude as to miss his own event, would he?"

"Who knows," says Yuri. "Guy's as friendly as a box of bees."

"Says you," says JJ.

Yuri sets his jaw. "Yeah, says me. Problem?"

"We'll give him ten more minutes," says Christophe, pouring everyone more coffee.

There's a loaded silence. Yuuri gets the distinct feeling that everyone is trying not to stare at him. He fiddles with his napkin, staring down at his lap. _These are your friends_ , he reminds himself. _No one here is thinking badly of you_. He looks up and accidentally meets Yuri's gaze, and is surprised to find the eye contact calm, not inordinately curious. Yuri sticks out his tongue when he registers him. Yuuri blushes, turning his attention to his coffee, which Victor is already preparing to his liking: two sugars, a few drops of milk, and a sliver of ice from his water glass. He slides the cup his way and Yuuri sips from it, smiling. Victor's hand finds his own and curls around it, warm and bracing.

"Did you go sightseeing yesterday?" he asks everyone.

"Yeah, Box o' Bees took us to Namiseom Island," says JJ. "Dragged me to Little France."

"How was it?"

"Romantic," says Otabek lowly, from behind his teacup. Yuri's face turns bright red.

"Right! Congratulations on becoming Instagram's new It couple," says Christophe. 

"God, it's not like he gave me a promise ring or anything," Yuri grumbles. "We just decided to let the public know we're seeing each other."

"As if it weren't already obvious," says Victor.

"Especially after you two fed each other aggressively mediocre _croque madame_ from the same fork," says JJ.

"What's that?" asks Yuuri.

"It's an eating utensil."

"It's a ham and cheese sandwich with an egg on top," says Otabek.

"I wish I could've gone," says Yuuri, even though he doesn’t: he spent the whole day playing phone apps with Victor on the settee on the balcony, drinking their way through all of the mini-fridge's overpriced soda pop. They couldn't kiss, of course, but Victor worked his lips gently down each side of Yuuri's neck, careful not to disturb the sore spots. Yuuri wanted badly to take him in his mouth. He settled instead for a slow handjob before separate showers, somehow unable to let Victor see him naked in a sexual context. He doesn't know what that's about yet, but he'll deal with it later. Right now it's mobile chess and soft drinks, holding hands in the breeze, feet up on the railing. 

The only truly unpleasant moment was an unavoidable call home. Victor was keeping his family in the loop through texts and updates, but hearing his mother cry over him easily ranks in the top worst memories of Yuuri's life, following only the attack itself. She wants him to come home so she can cook for him. He knows he'll have to face her eventually, but the thought still leaves him cold. He says he loves her when he hangs up, and takes another shower, thinking lovely, empty thoughts.

There's a mirror in his mind these days: when he touches the wrong place, he finds something glass-smooth there, something that reflects him back away from himself. It's something he knows shows in his eyes, from the way Victor looks at him, but he hasn't asked him about it yet. Yuuri hopes he never does. 

It's not like he's not coping. He's skipping meals and sleeping a little too much now, but that's good; usually he handles things by overeating, undersleeping. Yuuri wonders why no one has noticed how well he's doing. Doesn't he deserve some praise? Isn't it impressive, his resiliency, his mantra these days, _It was fine, it was only my body_ —

Flat coldness. He feels himself reflecting away, shrugs that off.

Conversation has moved on. "It's not a sex metaphor," Yuri is protesting, inexplicably.

"Right, because a metaphor would imply subtlety," JJ says. "Dude, it's straight-up about sex."

"No, it's not!"

"Seriously? 'He's giving me that good shit that make me not quit? That good shit? Oh, he give it to me—'"

A new voice breaks in: "'Everyday.'"

Yuuri turns, startled, and he, Victor, and Otabek do this weird thing where they all half-stand, as if welcoming a lady to a table in 19th century America.

"What up, party people!" Phichit exclaims. "Nice shirt, Chris, JJ."

It's Phichit and Seung Gil. Phichit's leaning heavily on a crutch, but he's smiling, the bruising on his face almost entirely gone. If he's still got the pins in his hips, they're well-hidden by his neon green hoodie and studded shorts. He's wearing plasters over the scrapes on his legs and forearms, pale against his dark skin.

"Phichit!" Yuuri rushes to greet him, tingling with excitement as he folds him into an eager embrace. Phichit clings back, laughing.

"Easy there, Yuuri. I might actually feel you through all the Vicodin."

"They got you on Watsons?" asks JJ.

"Mmm. Three weeks' worth."

"Dude. Share."

"This is why no one hangs out with you," Yuri informs him.

"So how are you? How have you been?" Yuuri asks.

"Oh, you know," says Phichit, waving a hand. "Peachy keen. Taking a little social media break, thinking about things."

"What things?"

"This and that," Phichit says vaguely. And before Yuuri can press him for details: "Ooh, is that banana milk?"

As he lapses into cheerful conversation with the others, Yuuri frowns, leaning back into his chair. Victor drapes his arm over his shoulders in silent acknowledgement and validation: Phichit is acting strange. His eyes and voice are overbright, plastic-like in their sheen, and he's playing up a youthful, bubbly breeziness the same way he used to when he flirted with older boys back in Detroit. He always wore the persona wrong. He's sharper than that; more alert and interesting and sincere. He reaches across Seung Gil to see something on Chris' phone and laughs, a sound that should have Yuuri smiling, too. Instead, his whole body tenses. Yuuri's silverware tinkles as he bumps the table, blurting it out before he can lose his nerve.

"But Phichit, how _are_ you?"

The silence thuds over them like a dusty curtain. Everyone stares at him, Yuri's mouth half-open around a sentence, Phichit's finger poised over a button on his phone. Otabek shakes his head a little, but he's a bit too late and Phichit is already straightening with challenge.

"I'm fine, Yuuri," he says, smiling so sharp it cuts. "How are _you_ doing?"

Chris and Otabek are polite enough to busy themselves with their menus, but Yuri and JJ's heads are turning back and forth as if they're watching a ping pong match. Yuuri feels himself reddening. Phichit did this on purpose; shifted the spotlight so that he'd be forced to set the tone, the level of disclosure. Yuuri ducks behind his napkin, heavy from overexposure. How deep does he really want to go with everyone sitting here? If he can't even address it himself, does he really have any right pushing Phichit to?

"I guess I'm okay," he says at last, voice small.

"Good," says Phichit brightly. "That's good to hear."

Yuuri feels sick. He forgets too often how _young_ Phichit really is, how instinctive and survivalist this avoidance must be for him. They stare at each other for a long moment. Phichit actually looks away first, his expression losing none of its cheer. He pats Yuuri's knee under the table, just once.

"Actually, I've been thinking about something that involves all of us."

Yuri twitches. "No."

"You don't even know what it is yet!" Phichit protests.

"I know, but, like—I'm just saying. Generally 'no' when it comes to 'all of us.'"

"Rude."

"What is it?" asks Yuuri.

"Food first," says Phichit, grinning. "I'm starving."

Seung Gil ends up ordering for them, a whole smorgasbord of omelets, waffles, lattes, desserts and beef sandwiches and more hot coffee. If Yuuri didn't know him better, he'd suspect that he was trying to butter them up for something.

He wonders what the hell Seung Gil and Phichit could've been discussing at the hospital. Seung Gil has spent every day with him, with the exception of yesterday's excursion, during which Celestino had taken his place. Yuuri suspects that Phichit does most of the talking, and is morbidly curious about what he's been saying. Has he mentioned— _it_ at all? Is he coping as well as Yuuri is, and has he been coming to terms with the end of his competitive skating career? Seung Gil and Phichit don't have much in common except a subtly charged acquaintanceship, a history of staring a little bit too long and angling their bodies toward each other when they speak. Phichit hasn't mentioned Seung Gil except to say, drunkenly, _Boy's finer than a thousand-thread-count sheet._ And Yuuri's not quite sure what that means.

Yuuri eats about half a waffle. Victor tries to coax him into eating more, but his stomach still feels a little knotted, a little small. He makes up for it in coffee. He can see now that everyone's eyeing Phichit, and is quietly grateful to have them preoccupied: Phichit is eating with his normal gusto, healthy and cheery. Makes for a much prettier subject that Yuuri did. Yuuri sips from his mug, watching Phichit lick syrup off his fingertips.

"So do you guys have anywhere to go after Korea?" he asks them. "Next event isn't for a while."

Shrugs all around. "Home, I guess," says Yuri, and the others kind of nod their agreement. Yuuri's not aware he's been pointedly quiet until Phichit glances at him.

"Yuuri?"

"Oh. Um. Not home," he says. "Not just yet. Maybe I'll stay with Victor?" He glances at him questioningly.

"Of course," says Victor, "though there won't be much for you to do there. I've no plans either."

"Good," says Phichit, beaming. "Good. Then, Vegas."

Sudden silence. Blank stares all around. Yuuri's sipping slows, then stops, and Yuri's fork makes an understated tinkling sound as he warily sets it down on the edge of his plate. Phichit's winding up for some speech, clearing his throat and straightening and stuff.

"I've been thinking a lot about life," he says, "and how it takes you to unexpected places. How it helps you make friends that you wouldn't normally, and face challenges that you don't think you can handle, and learn things about yourself that you may not have otherwise. My favorite philosopher once said, 'I'm a human being, and I fall in love, and sometimes I don't have control of every situation—'"

"That was Beyoncé," says Christophe.

"—and I think that if there's anything we can learn from that, it's that we always end up where we're supposed to be, for better or for worse. Life is short. We can't waste our time being afraid or—"

"The Mirage!" Yuri shouts.

That's enough to derail even Phichit. "The—?"

"The Mirage! They have white tiger enclosures!" He's beating his fists on the table now, making the plates jump. "We could even stay there! We'll visit the tigers every day, and then we can go out on the Strip and go to Circus Circus and maybe see _more_ tigers, and then go to that big fountain thing at that one place—you know, the one plays songs and shoots the water up—and—oh my _fuck_ , Celine Dion's supposed to be touring there sometime soon—"

"Celine Dion," says Christophe, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, as if in great pain.

"Wow," says Phichit, delighted. "And I had Yuri pegged as the hardest sell!"

"Not Otabek?" asks Victor.

"Well, he and Yuri were sort of a package deal."

"Whoa, whoa, you haven't convinced us of anything," JJ protests, pushing away from the table. "Just because we've pity-hung around because you two got the shit kicked out of you doesn't mean we're ready to take a family-vacation."

"Why not?" asks Phichit eagerly. "We all have passports! We're all young and nubile—"

"—doesn't mean what you think it means—"

"—and in need of some serious time to unwind. C'mon, JJ! Victor? Chris?"

Yuuri turns to Victor and flashes him a look that says, _Oh god, please nix this right now or you are going to be sleeping on the couch tonight, and I don't mean the comfy one_ , but Victor merely puts a finger to his lips and makes a pensive sound. "I'm concerned about your mobility around Las Vegas," he says slowly, ignoring Yuuri's pleading expression.

"Oh, don't worry about that! The nurses say I'm healing spectacularly, and I've got my crutch, a walker, _and_ a wheelchair in case of emergencies. The external fixtures are already coming out tomorrow. And I promise to tell you if I get tired!"

"No roller coasters," Victor points out.

"No roller coasters," says Phichit, raising his right hand, as if taking an oath.

Victor smiles as if that solves everything. Yuuri kicks him lightly under the table. "Phichit, I don't even know where to begin," he says, flustered. "We can't. _I_ can't. The money, for one—"

"I can pay," Victor begins. Yuuri kicks him again, harder.

"It's just—it's a tourist trap, Phichit. There's nothing there for us to really see; it's just a bunch of expensive restaurants and casinos and shows—"

"I know!" says Phichit excitedly. "You're really selling this, Yuuri."

"No! I didn't mean in a good way!" Yuuri groans. "Yurio's not even of drinking age yet. Certain people—" he tries not to stare at Christophe, who is wriggling his eyebrows at him, smirking, "—might get into trouble. We're public figures. We have a responsibility to behave ourselves. And it's—it's _dangerous_."

"No more dangerous than nightclubs in Seoul," says Phichit.

His voice is light, but that quiets them all again. It's the closest he's come to talking about it, Yuuri realizes, and he has to admire what it must've cost him—Phichit's eyes flash briefly with what might be tears, but he blinks a few times and they disappear. He smiles at Yuuri, soft and beautiful. Reaches out to take his hand, the one without his ring, and folds it into his own. 

Yuuri looks down at them. The bruises around his wrists have been the most stubborn; they're still a dull brown-green, columned in the shape of fingers. Phichit's injuries are almost identical. For just a millisecond, he's back there; back in the alley of that club with the men bending him over, Phichit screaming on the ground in front of him—then Victor's hand is on his shoulder, grounding him, and he shakes it just enough to return Phichit's smile, which has grown tentative. He leans forward and encloses Phichit into a firm hug that he hopes addresses all of their history, old and new. He's shaking minutely, and wonders if Phichit can feel it.

"You really want this," he says.

"I do," says Phichit. "I've always wanted to go, and I can't imagine not sharing it with my best friend."

Yuuri sighs into Phichit's shoulder. Phichit smells like antiseptic and unfamiliar shampoo, and behind that, a little like Seung Gil. It's faint, but there. Cologne and gochujang and something bucolic, like a field after a storm. Even in Detroit, Phichit wore the fragrance of rainwater well.

"Okay," he says.

Phichit thrums with excitement. "Okay?"

"Yes. Okay."

"Aah!" Phichit moves to kiss him on the mouth, pauses, and smoothly presses his lips to Yuuri's cheek instead. So he knows about the STI. Yuuri leans back, forcing a smile in place as Phichit glances around the table, clapping his hands together. "Chris?" he pleads. "Otabek, JJ?"

"I'm game," says Christophe, flashing him a peace sign.

Otabek glances helplessly at Yuri, who has pulled 'Celine Dion show dates' up on his phone and is clicking away. He shrugs, expression conflicted. "All right," he says at last.

Phichit turns to JJ, who is frowning, arms crossed. "JJ," he says sweetly. "Handsome, benevolent King JJ, my liege."

"Oh, can it," says JJ. There's something weirdly vulnerable in his face. He reaches down and crushes a tiny crumb of toast with his thumbnail, then swipes it away with a napkin. "I've got a wife to worry about at home. I don't have time to just skip off to Vegas with you losers. It's—it's not like you even really want me there, anyway."

"But we do," says Phichit without sarcasm. He looks around for support. "Right?"

"Right," says Victor, smiling.

Yuuri nods. "Come with us. It'll be fun."

"Wouldn't be the same without you," says Christophe, clasping JJ's shoulder.

Now everyone's staring at Yuri, who takes a long moment to register their attention. He finally glances up from his phone, does a double-take at JJ's expression, then sighs deeply at Phichit's. "Oh, JJ," he says stiffly, not looking at him. "Please _grace_ us with your dazzling, incomparable presence in Sin City. The Luxor itself couldn't shine as brightly as your eyes."

Even Phichit's smile fades a little with distaste, but JJ just straightens, perking up. His grin takes on its usual edge of cool confidence.

"Well, if you insist," he says.

A cheer goes up around the table, and Yuuri surprises himself by joining in. He can't remember the last time he had something non-skating-related to look forward to, and finds himself fueled by Phichit's hand on his, Yuri's childlike excitement, the slow, suggestive smile Victor is flashing him. Yuuri is just beginning to return it when he remembers Seung Gil, sitting next to Phichit, taking calm sips of tea.

"Seung Gil?" he asks.

"Oh, he already agreed, don't worry," says Phichit, flapping a hand, but Seung Gil clears his throat.

"I do have one condition," he says.

Phichit pauses, pouting. "You didn't say anything about this in the hospital."

"I didn't say I'd go, either. I said that I'd think about it."

Seung Gil takes another long draught of tea, eyes down, and Yuuri realizes suddenly that he's not playing up the drama of the moment: he's trying to gather himself. Theatrics were never his style. What he wants to ask is legitimately difficult, and Yuuri waits, feeling the mood somber.

"I need you to do something for me," Seung Gil says eventually. "I need you to listen, Phichit, and to not take this the wrong way."

Phichit chews his lower lip. "What is it?" he asks cautiously.

"My mother has some friends who do martial arts training here in town," says Seung Gil. "They teach a self-defense class. I would like all of us to take it together."

Oh. _Oh._ Yuuri's throat tightens, and he feels himself closing off even as Phichit's feelings effuse, his face hardening with resistance.

"I don't need to take a self-defense class," he snaps.

"I know," says Seung Gil. "But I would appreciate it."

"That's—this is stupid, Seung Gil. No one does that kind of stuff anymore."

"Plenty of people do. They get thousands of students a year. I will arrange for a private class; no one will be there except for us."

" _No_ ," says Phichit, crossing his arms.

The café is quiet without their conversation. Yuuri stares awkwardly at his full plate, watching the syrup pool around his uneaten waffles as the morning moves slow and bright around him, world still turning. Phichit abruptly clasps one palm over his eyes, mouth in a tight, trembling line. His breath hitches around a sob. Yuuri takes his hand again. Phichit squeezes back, bruises on his wrist standing out as he clenches.

"Tigers," says Yuri suddenly, in a low, seductive voice. 

Phichit swallows hard, then laughs a little.

"White tigers," Yuri continues. "White lions. _Thunder From Down Under_."

"You're far too young to know what that is, but you make a compelling argument." Phichit releases Yuuri's hand so he can dab at his face with a napkin, sniffling. When his eyes are completely dry, he glances around the table. He smiles, small and embarrassed. "Sorry," he says. "Not sure what that was about. Yeah, of course I'll take the class, Seung Gil. It's just one, right?"

"Just one," Seung Gil confirms. For the first time since Yuuri has known him, he's smiling too. "Then we go to Vegas."

"It's going to be great!" says Phichit. His voice only breaks a bit.

"It is."

They stare at each other, soft and fond. Yuuri finds himself mesmerized by that look, by its possibilities. He looks at Victor. Victor nods back without looking at him, a knowing grin blossoming on his lips.

"Viva Las Vegas, baby," he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for the unbelievable support! This chapter probably marks the beginning of the actual story arc, which I hope will be enjoyable for you, because I'm pumped to write it. Hope you all have a fantastic week!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: intense chapter. Triggers, explicit references to past noncon, STIs, language. Be careful and safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review responses to the previous chapter will be late, as I'm heading out on an airplane flight shortly! Sorry for the wait! I hope you're all well.

Seung Gil schedules the self-defense class for a bright, quiet Tuesday afternoon. Victor strokes Yuuri's hair until he awakens so they can get ready, showering and eating and dressing in comfortable workout clothing, as advised. They're the first ones to arrive at the community center, and they sit together in the back of the taxi and watch as their friends file in: JJ handsome in navy sweatpants and well-loved sneakers, Yuri and Otabek subtly linking pinkies, Christophe with an iced coffee, scrolling through his Instagram feed as he mounts the stairs. They look solemn, prepared. Yuuri feels a rush of gratitude that churns uneasily with his anxiety. He lifts his glasses and presses his face into his palms, measuring his breaths.

"Ready?" Victor asks finally, laying a soft kiss in his hair, and Yuuri slowly nods. They're racking up cab fare. Yuuri pays and tips, and they climb out of the car, the fresh air warm and full in their lungs.

They're just clearing the front sidewalk when Seung Gil drives up, pulling in close to the curb to help Phichit out of the passenger seat. "Hi!" Phichit exclaims, waving. He drapes his arms around Seung Gil's neck, and Seung Gil gently lifts him onto the pavement. It's beautiful until Yuuri looks down and sees Phichit's surgery-blackened hips, the bandages and stitches revealed by his short top and tight sweatpants, waistband lowered to avoid resting on the worst of the incision sites.

Yuuri's throat closes up. Seung Gil pulls his walker from the back and helps him get settled against its supports, and Phichit, seeing Yuuri's expression, quickly shakes his head.

"Oh, Yuuri, don't worry! This is a temporary measure. Was just feeling a bit wobbly this morning, is all."

"You look fantastic," says Victor, smiling.

Phichit beams back. "Thank you. I _feel_ fantastic."

"Help him in," says Seung Gil, giving his keys a brisk twirl. "I'm going to go park."

Yuuri hastens to brace Phichit by the upper waist. The motion brings their faces close, and Phichit nuzzles his cheek with his own, obviously wishing they could kiss. Instead, he touches Yuuri's wrist, a platonic and loaded gesture that makes Yuuri ache. He reaches for the railing. Together, moving carefully, they ascend the stairs.

It's a long, painful process. Phichit has to stop four times in its ten-step length, panting, tears in his eyes. Yuuri's hands don't falter. He holds onto Phichit even when Seung Gil returns, and eventually they reach the top, Phichit's breath quaking in his chest. "No problem," he manages, flashing a shaky peace sign. Yuuri does kiss him then, on the temple, and it occurs to him in one sick rush that the last time they'd kissed deeply was outside the club. 

A chill runs through him: the men had been watching them then. Had they known already what they were going to do to Yuuri and Phichit? Would any young men have sufficed, or were they targeted for their attitudes, their indiscretions? Yuuri remembers the clothes he had been wearing, the way he had greedily deepened Phichit's innocent kiss. What if he had provoked them with his sexuality?

Thing is, none of it was Phichit's fault. Phichit had actually been resistant; had drunk less, worn more. Victor keeps telling him that he wasn't to blame, but if anyone had been at fault, it was him. Yuuri wishes he could clarify that for their friends. Seung Gil is still the only one who has the details of the assault. He hasn't even given Victor the play-by-play, and, with any luck, never will. But Yuuri knows. He—

—touches the mirror again, the one in his mind. Reflects off. Rushes forward to hold the door open for Phichit.

When they finally reach the appropriate room, his friends are already stretching under the supervision of a middle-aged, female Korean couple, one of them in elbow and kneepads. No one stares at them as they take their places on the mat, but Seung Gil has to help Phichit to the ground, and Victor flinches toward Yuuri when his bad hip twinges. It takes them a long time to get settled. Yuuri glances at Phichit sidelong, watches him attempt tender, easy stretches.

They've told him his skating career is over, but it clearly hasn't hit home yet. How can he still be in denial? He can't even touch his toes. Phichit senses his gaze and turns, smiling. Yuuri smiles back. It twists his stomach. He looks away, focusing on his own posture.

One of their instructors begins speaking in Korean. Seung Gil paraphrases, his translation loose, informal: "She says hello and thanks for coming. Her name is Ha Na, and her partner is Hee Ra. This class is physically and emotionally intense, so if you ever need a moment to rest, let her know. First we'll be learning basic solo defensive moves. Please stand."

 _A moment to rest_. Yuuri's mouth firms. Even if it kills him, he's not going to be the one who asks for a respite. He stands up, hands on his hips, nodding once to acknowledge and dismiss Victor's gentle, questioning look.

Ha Na and Hee Ra lead them through holds and how to break them. It's just like practice: Yuuri concentrates on his form, his technicals. They run through the motions of push-backs, pressure points, leveraging their weight, wrist-holds, chokeholds. Seung Gil translates the corrections. "Yuuri, lean back more. Bend your elbow," he says. "JJ, same. Christophe, more balance in your left leg."

They're good at this, his friends. And they're taking it seriously. JJ's face is tight with focus, and Otabek and Yuri are watching each other closely, checking each other for errors. 

"Pair off to practice," says Seung Gil.

Yuuri and Victor turn to face each other, and the eye contact burns a little, sweet and burdened. Yuuri smiles, and after a moment, Victor grins. He guides Yuuri's arms into one of the holds and sets his fingers carefully for the reversal. Over his shoulder, Yuuri can see Otabek and Yuri settling into position, JJ and Seung Gil, Christophe with Phichit, his grip cautious but uncondescending. "Okay. Go," says Hee Ra in her careful English, and Phichit's hands flash forward, and Christophe is rubbing his wrists, wincing.

"Excellent job, Phichit," Seung Gil says of his own volition, not in translation.

Victor didn't miss that, either. He winks, then sobers up, nods his ready. Yuuri takes a deep breath, pressing forward in imitation of an assailant. Victor breaks the grip with a hitch of difficulty. "Again," says Yuuri. Victor's going to get this perfect. They both are.

They practice until Victor's got the motions down, then switch. Yuuri feels nothing when Victor's hands curl around his wrists atop his old bruises. _Conspicuously_ nothing, as if there should be something there, an emotion or a flicker of whatever, or a pain, even a small one. Instead, there's only empty space. It's not the same, Victor's grasp and his attacker's. He's not helpless. He's not bent double with a man in his mouth. As he practices, Victor watches his face, never looking away, and Yuuri stares straight back, equally unwavering. He frees himself from the hold with an easy snap.

Victor smiles at him. "Beautiful," he breathes.

Christophe and Phichit have moved on, and JJ and Seung Gil, but Yuri seems to be struggling against Otabek's grip. "Too hard," Yuri grumbles, yanking fruitlessly.

"An aggressor won't go easy on you," says Otabek, his voice as close to gentle as Yuuri has ever heard it.

"I know, but—"

"You're moving too linearly. Try again. More pressure."

They repeat the gesture, and this time, Yuri successfully frees himself from the hold. Yuuri heads a round of applause that makes Yuri's ears redden. "Fuck off," he says, scowling, and swipes a quick arm across his eyes. He looks strangely exhausted. He crouches as he waits for instruction, balanced on the balls of his feet.

"For the next exercise," says Seung Gil, "we need two volunteers. I will be one of them."

Yuuri's turns, and his throat tightens. The women are settling on the ground, one between the other's legs in an unmistakable position. He reaches instinctively for Victor's ready hand. Victor squeezes back hard as Seung Gil translates:

"In the case of a sexual assault, energy conservation is important, as assailants often aim to exhaust you. Strategically-placed reflex responses, wrist-releases, and false surrenders are key techniques. Watch."

Hee Ra and Ha Na demonstrate each technique repeatedly: grips and guard get-ups, twists, stretches and slides. It's hard to watch. Yuuri feels himself begin to shake. To mitigate his anxiety, he glances around at his friends: Victor is alert, studying. Christophe's lashes are lowered slightly, a subtle response of nerves, and JJ's arms are crossed, his gaze reflective and courteous. Otabek is openly eyeing Yuri, whose hands are on his hips, his chest high and trembly. And Phichit—

"I volunteer," says Phichit, cheerily raising one hand.

"Okay," says Seung Gil without missing a beat. He gestures Phichit forward.

Alarmed, Yuuri shakes his head, but Seung Gil either doesn't see him or is ignoring him. Phichit forgoes his walker in lieu of leaning on them one at a time as he makes his way to the front of the room, each of them reflexively supporting him, forcing their compliance in his performance.

Yuuri steps forward when Phichit moves into the victim's position, but Victor holds him back. "Don't make it worse," he says quietly. They watch in silence as Seung Gil, visibly hesitant now, folds one arm around Phichit's waist and begins slowly lowering him to the ground like a lover. Phichit clasps his hands around his neck, smiling. They settle against the carpet, Phichit parting his knees around Seung Gil's trim hips—

This is the exact position in which Phichit was raped. This is how Yuuri saw him that night, screaming, the man working viciously between his legs.

Yuuri clasps one hand to his mouth, struggling to keep his breathing steady. He's going to throw up. He's going to—

Yuri doubles over suddenly, letting out a loud, wailing sob.

"Oh my god," whispers Phichit, and Seung Gil helps him up immediately. Phichit scoots over on his knees to comfort him, and everyone follows, careful not to touch Yuri as they gather around him in a tight circle. Yuuri gets the closest, hand hovering near.

"Yuri," he murmurs. "Yuri, breathe. We're right here."

Yuri gulps in wet, broken breaths. Tears stream down his face, and he pitches forward so that his forehead touches the ground, both arms wrapped protectively over his stomach as he sobs.

"Yuri, I'm going to touch you now. Okay? I'm going to help you lie down."

Yuuri gently reaches forward and places his fingertips on Yuri's arms, coaxing him back, then supporting his shoulders as he eases him to the carpet. "Water," he says, and JJ fetches a water bottle from his bag. Yuuri pours a bit into his handkerchief and presses it to Yuri's forehead, swiping away his tears with his thumbs as he convulses.

"I was eleven," Yuri sobs, choking for breath. "It was my dance instructor. I thought he was just adjusting my p-posture, but then I felt him—he was behind me, he was pushing me against the barre—"

"Yuri," Otabek whispers, stunned.

Yuri rolls over, inching toward Victor. Victor shifts until his head is in his lap. He curls his fingers into his pale hair and begins stroking. They can barely hear him:

"Grandfather drove me to the h-hospital. I r-remember trying to keep my legs crossed so—so it wouldn't leak out. The p- _proof_ of what he did to me."

Yuuri closes his eyes. Tears spill down his cheeks. He leans away, and Christophe catches him, stroking his back as Yuuri presses his face into the crook of his neck. "I've got you, Yuuri," Christophe promises, and Yuuri feels a stab of gratitude for his friends, so strong it stings. The hand that lands on his shoulder next belongs to JJ. Seung Gil is watching both him and Yuri, his respiration bracingly even. Yuri reaches out and catches one of Otabek's hands, holding it to his mouth as he cries, and the other searches out Yuuri's. It's strange, uncharacteristic contact, but not unwelcome. Yuuri squeezes Yuri's fingers in his own as they cry, his own tears slow, understated, Yuri's being unwillingly wrenched from his body.

He doesn't know how long passes, but he calms, and so does Yuri, though it takes him much longer. Finally Yuri sits up, hair mussed. He accepts the bottle of water JJ passes him and draws a small sip. "Fuck," he says softly, without pretense. His voice cracks and hitches. He uncrosses his legs and rests his elbows on his knees, burying his face in both hands.

It's only then, in this downtime, that Yuri notices Phichit.

Phichit is watching with huge eyes, affected but disconnected. Normally a display like this would have him in tears too—he's cried for subway buskers before, for puppies in pet shops—but his gaze is dry, alarmed. It's altogether the incorrect emotional response, as if some gauge inside him has been misaligned.

It's not appropriate to call attention to him now, but Yuuri stares, and Phichit registers it, stares back. The moment is sickeningly blank. Then Yuri is clambering to his feet, and Phichit is clapping and cheering his support, and everyone is moving past him, patting Yuri on the back.

They finish the class together, all of them. They pair off differently this time, Phichit with Otabek and Yuri with Victor, so Yuuri ends up with JJ, who handles him with a conscientiousness that makes Yuuri feel safe, respected. "Doing great," he says at one point, grinning down at him as Yuuri practices extricating himself from their compromising position. When they switch, JJ asks his advice, which Yuuri provides in calm, measured tones. In the end, he feels closer to JJ, as if he has a little more insight into him. JJ's eyes are stern and confident. They complete the exercises, and JJ helps him up, smacking him hard in the arm like a proper bro.

"'Congratulations,'" Seung Gil translates Hee Ra. "'You are now better equipped to defend yourselves in difficult situations, and you handled yourselves brilliantly.'" He hesitates. "And—these words are my own: thank you for indulging me. I've never had friends before, and I'm—I'm honored to be among your ranks."

There's a murmur of assent, and Phichit is the first to move into a hug. Seung Gil holds him against his side like a wife as he shakes hands with the others. As they move in to speak with the instructors and talk amongst each other, Yuuri slips out and locates the restroom.

He throws up twice. Sweat drips down his face. When he's finally done, the community center is quieting, and he hastens out.

Victor must be waiting outside. Phichit is leaving last on his walker, Seung Gil by his side. Yuuri steps up to them, his voice even.

"We need to talk," Yuuri tells Phichit.

*

They end up in one of the unlocked rooms of the community center, Phichit leaning against a desk, Yuuri seated. That's his first mistake: their stances. He lets Phichit tower over him, and he only becomes aware of it after it's too late to rectify it without being aggressive. As he stares up at him, a pain starts in his stomach and blossoms in his chest, unfolding a petal at a time.

They haven't been alone since the assault. Victor was there with them in the hospital, perhaps on purpose, but it's time to face this. Together.

"Phichit," he begins, and finds himself stuck there. "Phichit."

"Yuuri," Phichit replies, giving him a flirty smile.

"I—I've been meaning to talk with you for a long time."

"What about?"

"The—you know. What happened to us."

Phichit's smile fades a little. He scratches his head, then settles a little more heavily against the desk, hands coming together as he fiddles with his nails. "Oh," he says. "That."

"Yeah. That."

They're having trouble looking at each other now. Yuuri stares at the ground, trying to find the words. What can be said about having to see one another so violently _forced_ , so compromised? They're best friends, and he thought they always would be, but it never once occurred to Yuuri that he'd have to wonder if their relationship could survive something like this. They'd called Phichit a cunt. They'd talked about Yuuri's lack of virginity, his slut's mouth, his openness and Phichit's tightness. Remembering the words shouldn't hurt; they came from subhuman trash, but—but it does. It does hurt. Yuuri closes his eyes and shields them with one hand as his eyes begin to sting.

"Yuuri, are you okay?" Phichit says softly, clasping his shoulder. 

"Yes," says Yuuri. Then, after a moment: "You know, I don't know if I am. I think I'm doing well, considering, and it's hurting me that no one has noticed—but I—I might be sleeping too much. And I'm not having dreams."

"But you always dream," says Phichit.

"I know." He does. Big, colorful dreams, populated by friends and family and ice. His sleep lately is like a void, like the mirror. It leaves him feeling empty even awake. "How are you doing?"

Phichit shrugs. "Fine, I guess. Healing beautifully."

"I mean," says Yuuri, swallowing. This is it. This is what he has to do. "I mean—after our rape. Your rape." 

"Oh," Phichit says calmly. "Yuuri, I wasn't raped."

Yuuri stops short. He stares at Phichit, unable for several long seconds to even find his voice. "What?" he says at last.

"I wasn't raped," Phichit repeats, shrugging. "I never said 'no.'"

That's—what the fuck. What the _fuck_. Yuuri lets out a short laugh, clasping one hand to his forehead in utter disbelief, confusion. "Phichit. Phichit," he says, leaning into Phichit's line of sight until he's forced to make eye contact, "if you didn't _literally_ say 'no,' it's because that bastard had his hand over your mouth as he _forced your legs apart_."

"No," says Phichit, frowning. "No, I had plenty of chances to—"

"Phichit, _stop it!_ " Yuuri is not going to stand for this, for any part of this. This is fucking unacceptable. He stands and takes Phichit by both shoulders and shakes him, making his teeth click together. His eyes are flooding with tears. "Phichit, you _were_ raped. I'm so sorry, but it's true. That man threw you down the stairs. He pinned you down and he pulled your clothes off and he put himself in you, and you fought him the entire time; you did so well—"

Phichit is shaking his head. "But I didn't say—"

"You didn't say 'yes!'" Yuuri shouts. "You didn't consent!"

"Yuuri, you're crying," says Phichit, voice beginning to wobble.

"Yes, I'm crying! Why aren't _you?_ "

Phichit stares at him, his expression caught between confusion and distress. He takes Yuuri's hands, holds on when he tries to tug them back. "Yuuri, something terrible happened to you," he says. "You said 'no;' I heard you. And you were drunk."

"You were drunk too!"

"Not very. Not as much as you."

" _That doesn't mean you weren't incapacitated!_ "

"Stop yelling at me, Yuuri!" Phichit cries.

Yuuri presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, sobbing thinly with fury and frustration. " _Fuck!_ " he screams.

Phichit puts a hand on his shoulder. Yuuri flings it away. Phichit makes a huffy, upset sound and crosses his arms, lips pressed into a pout.

"Yuuri, I'm so sorry about what they did to you," Phichit says, "but you know it's different. I don't want you to feel like a victim, but you were hurt, okay? And I want to be there for you, but you can't, like—keep _projecting_ what happened to you on me and—Yuuri? Yuuri!"

He's walking away. He can't take this anymore. He stalks out of the classroom and slams the door on his way out, passing Seung Gil on the way. "He's ready for you," he chokes out, then shoves past him, running the rest of the way outside to where Victor is waiting for him at the curb.

"Baby," Victor says, stunned.

He flings himself into Victor's arms. Victor drops a bottle of water to catch him and begins kissing him hard, STI be damned, holding his face in both hands. "I can't," Yuuri sobs. "Help me, Victor—I _can't!_ "

"You can," Victor encourages him, his mouth hot at his temples, his cheeks, his neck. "You can, my star; I'm right here."

Yuuri collapses onto the concrete. Victor holds him, helps him down gently, shrugging off his coat and flinging it around his shoulders. That's when the front doors open: Seung Gil is helping Phichit down the stairs again, this time abandoning the walker to sweep him into his arms and carry him, and Phichit is crying too, full-bodied and harsh, sobs wracking him. He clings to Seung Gil's neck, his ruined hips visible above the waistband of his pants. "I'm so sorry, Yuuri," he cries. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you—"

He can't bring himself to look up. He holds onto Victor, letting the stress of the day sweep him away into darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri takes two steps forward and one step back with Phichit.

"You are officially cleared by your doctor for this ill-advised trip, and Victor's bloodwork is clean, but it turns out that skipping meals, becoming dehydrated, and having anxiety attacks can lead to fainting," says Seung Gil.

Yuuri blinks. "Are you—sassing me?"

"No," says Seung Gil, but this is probably the most he's ever said to Yuuri in one go, and his eyes are flashing with irritation. His expression softens when Yuuri withers. He uncrosses his arms and sort of hoverhands over Yuuri's shoulders, struggling for a smile that doesn't look like a grimace. "Take better care of yourself, Yuuri. That's all I'm saying."

"I see," says Yuuri. He hesitates, then puts down his luggage and reaches forward to fold him into a tender hug. "You've done so much for me in these past few weeks, Seung Gil. I can't thank you enough."

"It's nothing," says Seung Gil.

"It's everything. I don't know what we would've done without you."

Seung Gil is silent for a long moment. "Probably not gone to that club, for one," he says at last, his voice low.

Yuuri stares at him, struggling to understand. When he finally gets it, he's appalled. "You can't possibly hold yourself responsible for anything that happened to us there."

"Can't I?" asks Seung Gil. "I was the one who suggested it."

How long has this been weighing down on him? Yuuri feels a wave of guilt so strong it nauseates him. He takes Seung Gil's hands. "It was no one's fault but theirs. Not yours for taking us there, not Phichit's, not mine—" he pauses, stunned by his own words. _Not his fault_. Even for his clothes. Even for his drinking and his sexually active status with Victor, the way he'd been dancing. "It's no one's fault," he repeats in a whisper.

Seung Gil arches one eyebrow, and Yuuri realizes suddenly that this was his plan all along: a calculated risk, to be sure, but he got Yuuri to actually say it aloud, and it marks a change in him that he feels almost immediately. It's like something heavy is being pulled off from over his eyes. Yuuri lets out a slow, quiet breath, allowing himself to smile and mean it for the first time in a long while. It's not an instant fix, but it's a place to start. He hugs Seung Gil again, pressing him cheek-to-cheek and closing his eyes. He feels shaky with gratitude.

"Thank you," he says softly.

"No need to thank me," says Seung Gil. He pats Yuuri's back twice, awkwardly. "Um—"

"Sorry," says Yuuri, pulling away. 

They're standing outside the airport with their suitcases, waiting for the others to arrive. Victor, taking the hint that Seung Gil wanted to speak to Yuuri privately, went inside to fetch coffee, and Yuuri had assumed Phichit had sneaked away and accompanied him until Victor reappears alone. "No one else is here yet?" he says, handing off the lattes. "We're going to be late."

"We've got plenty of time," says Yuuri. He turns to Seung Gil. "Didn't you and Phichit arrive together?"

For some reason, Seung Gil's expression sours. "No."

"He caught his own taxi?"

"Yes. I think Christophe and Jean-Jacques—what's the word? Swimming, in the car—"

"Carpooled?"

"Carpooled with him. He'll be here shortly."

Yuuri doesn't pursue that. He'll ask Phichit later. For now, he holds Victor's hand and waits, sipping his coffee as he and Seung Gil stand in a stiff but not unfriendly silence.

The others do arrive soon after, unfolding from the taxi with an unbelievable amount of luggage. It's like a clown car in a circus act. Yuuri helps them pull suitcase after suitcase from the trunk and backseat, laughing when JJ rolls his eyes and says, "Honk honk" under his breath. He's traveling surprisingly lightly, only a single suitcase and a carry-on, but Phichit and Chris more than make up for it. Chris even seems to have put on extra jackets in order to smuggle them through the checkpoints. Phichit laughs too, leaning against Yuuri for support.

"I only packed what was absolutely necessary," he insists.

"And now many pairs of sunglasses does that amount to?" Yuuri asks.

Phichit winces. "Seven. But I need them all, I swear!"

"I'm sure," says Yuuri, grinning. He examines Phichit's stance, watches him experimentally shift his weight from one foot to the other. "How would you like to go about today? Did you bring your walker or crutch?"

A beat passes. "I have my crutch, but I think I'm going to need a wheelchair today," says Phichit, with simple dignity.

"Okay. Let me go find one. Hold my latte?"

"Mmm, no guarantees it'll still be here when you get back."

Yuuri hunts down a passenger service assistant who provides him with a chair, refusing his offer to transport Phichit. "I'll do it myself, thank you," he says. When he gets back, Yuri and Otabek have arrived, and they're ready to go through screening. Yuuri anticipates it's going to be a little tricky to navigate the terminal with the wheelchair, but after they check their bags and reach security, the process is expedited: the staff provides special attention to Phichit and the rest of his party, helping him through the scanners and into the tram. It's only when they've reached the gate and are afforded some downtime that Yuuri has the chance to examine his ticket more closely.

"Wait," he says. "This is for first class."

Victor beams at him. "Surprise! We upgraded you and Phichit to stretch seating!"

Phichit squeals. "Really?"

"Victor," Yuuri protests, but Victor is immovable, pushing the boarding pass back his way when he tries to give it back.

"You two deserve it."

"I can understand Phichit, but—"

"You wouldn't want him to be alone, would you?"

"I'm flying first class," says JJ, frowning. "Sorry. I thought we all were."

"Predictable," Yuri mutters.

"Yeah, the only thing 'coach' about you is your wife's handbag," says Phichit.

JJ squints at him. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Oh, no, I mean that in the nicest way possible. You keep your lovely lady in designer labels. Respect." Phichit is clapping his hands. "Thank you so much! I've never flown first class! Ciao Ciao always insists on coach because all we do is sleep usually, but I'm so going to use the outlets and watch movies and sip voddy with my pinkie extended!" 

"You're not coming?" Yuuri asks Victor quietly as the conversation moves on, a twinge of anxiety twisting his stomach.

Victor pats his hand. "It'll be all right, darling," he returns at the same volume. "I'll be right there in 14C if you need me, and I thought that you and Phichit might need an hour or fifteen to talk."

They haven't really spoken in the four or five days since their kind-of-argument, though Phichit did show up to visit Yuuri in the hospital after his fainting spell. Certainly haven't addressed Phichit's denial, or Yuuri's reaction to it. Maybe this could be good—it's a conversation that neither Phichit nor Yuuri can run away from, at least—but it could just as easily go the other way. Yuuri swallows, watching Phichit talk animatedly with Chris and JJ. He is very clearly ignoring Seung Gil. Seung Gil just sighs, staring out the plate-glass windows as planes taxi down the runway.

This trip was not a good idea. Yuuri let himself get too swept up in the magic of it, the idea of spending more time with his friends, but Vegas is intense, and his throat aches just thinking of all the potential it has to go terribly wrong. _It doesn't have to be bad_ , he reminds himself, standing up straight. _We'll just go, have a good time, visit some tigers_ —

"Yuri? Yuri Plisetsky?" 

They turn. A group of Korean girls are milling nearby, their spokesperson, a beautiful young woman in a pink dress, nervously wringing the strap of her purse as she approaches.

"So?" Yuri snaps, like the gracious celebrity he is.

"It is you!" she gasps. She gestures her friends forward. God, there must be a dozen of them, probably a high school sports team traveling out of the country for some sort of game. They swamp Yuri in an instant, holding out pens and boarding passes, shrieking.

Yuri groans audibly and pulls the strings of his hoodie so his face is covered except for a tiny pinhole, reaching out blindly to seize one of the pens and scribble his name. His hood has cat ears on it. They seem to be twitching with annoyance as he hands out autographs, grumbling, not responding to any of their questions.

Some of them solicit the other skaters, too. Yuuri signs a few magazines, and Victor, Chris, and Otabek get a good deal of attention. One of the girls, tiny and shy in blue Converse, points questioningly and concernedly to Phichit's wheelchair.

"Oh, it was just—" says Phichit, then makes vague fighting gestures, throwing tame punches.

"Fight?" she says.

"Yeah," Phichit says.

"Instagram?"

"Sorry, sorry! I'll get back on soon. Picture?"

She nods eagerly, and Yuuri offers to take it as she leans in, beaming. Phichit flashes a peace sign. It ends up being a great picture, and when she asks if she can post it, Phichit surprises Yuuri by nodding.

"Sure. Gotta re-debut online somehow," he says.

She bows deeply to him, blushing, then rushes back to her friends, who are still forming a squealing circle around Yuri.

Phichit watches fondly. Yuuri places one hand on his shoulder, and Phichit grips it, laughing as Yuri raises a middle finger for one of the photographs. Suddenly, loud enough only for Yuuri to hear, he says, "I've always wanted to die like that."

The world seems to slow. About a thousand chills race down Yuuri's spine. He leans in front of Phichit so he can see his eyes, but Phichit just looks wistful, content. There's nothing morbid in his expression, and Yuuri doesn't know if that's a good thing or not. "Like what?" he asks, strangled. Then, laughing weakly in an attempt to steer the conversation, "Surrounded by young girls with your middle finger up?"

"No," says Phichit, giggling. "Like—on the top of the world. You know what I mean?"

"Maybe," says Yuuri, after a moment. He's not lying: of course he remembers what it's like to take a place on a podium, flashbulbs going off like fireworks, the sky raining roses. A huge, sweeping pang washes over him: his _routines_. All the wasted hours of practice on the Albinoni, on the arrangement of The Lark by Glinka with its wide, sweet piano glissandos. He's been trying not to think about it, but it hurts, remembering what he'd missed out on. He doesn't know if he would've been able to beat Yuri, but that doesn't matter. All he'd wanted was an opportunity to try.

"Yuuri, it's going to be okay," says Phichit softly, which Yuuri supposes is better than, _It's okay_ on its own. At least it acknowledges that things aren't okay _now_. He can call that progress.

"Yes," says Yuuri. He reaches for Phichit's hand again. Forces a smile. "Yes, it will be."

*

By the time they're in the air, Yuuri's got a whole spiel planned out: a discussion of the stages of grief, to begin with, and its similarities to trauma coping mechanisms; an honest yet vivid recap of the evening of their attack; rebuttals to any of the protests Phichit could possibly make. 'I wasn't raped:' _you did not explicitly offer your consent_. 'I was asking for it:' _no more than I was_. 'It was my fault:' the latest revelation; the _it was no one's fault_ that Yuuri is finally starting to believe himself, with Seung Gil's help. And what's going on with Seung Gil, anyway? They're going to have to discuss that too. Yuuri takes a deep breath as the Fasten Seatbelts sign flickers off, the cabin thick with silence.

"Phichit—"

Phichit reclines his seat a little too far and starts tipping backwards, shrieking. Yuuri bursts out laughing as he thrashes upright again.

"Don't laugh at me," Phichit gasps. "My life flashed before my eyes."

"Oh? How was it?"

"Short," says Phichit. It clearly came out a little more melancholy than he'd intended, and he rushes to smile. "Highlights include the gold at the Cup of China, landing my first quad, and the time you fell off the lift at Alpine Valley."

"That was not funny," says Yuuri.

"It was the best thing I've ever seen."

"I will never go skiing again."

But that'd been a great year. They had done a little bit of everything: skiing, hiking, rock-climbing, camping—gosh, camping had been fantastic. They'd rented a boat and drifted on a lake for hours, fallen asleep, woken up terribly sunburned. Yuuri had fallen out of the boat swatting a mosquito. In fact, Yuuri has a track record of falling from things during recreational events. He's probably going to find a way to fall out of the plane. The thought makes him snicker, and Phichit beams at him, luminous and lovely.

"I've missed hearing you laugh," he says.

"Same to you," says Yuuri.

"I've laughed plenty," says Phichit.

"I mean, I've missed hearing you laugh and mean it." This is as good a place as any to segue into the serious stuff. Yuuri double-checks to make sure JJ is already asleep a few rows ahead—he is—then turns to look Phichit directly in the eyes. He keeps his voice very low. "Are you okay?" he asks. "Is something wrong between you and Seung Gil?"

Phichit makes a face. "Oh, that. Yeah. He—well—it's a long story."

"It's a long plane ride."

"So that's how it's gonna be? Okay." Phichit sighs, snuggling into the seat and leaning in conspiratorially. "Long story short: he shot me down."

Yuuri raises his eyebrows. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't that. "He—what? Like, romantically?"

"Yes," says Phichit, pouting. He lowers his voice. "I offered to suck him off, and he said no."

Yuuri just stares at him, lips parted slightly. His first instinct: to tell him that that's not what 'romantically' means. Then, when that thought dissipates— _what_? Phichit has never performed oral sex. Phichit has never been _kissed_ before, not consensually. The idea of him offering himself so offhandedly gives Yuuri's heart a sick tweak. Thank god Seung Gil had refused. "Phichit?" he asks in a high, small voice. It's the most he can manage.

"What?" says Phichit, annoyed. He wouldn't be so defensive if he didn't already know that what he did was desperate, uncharacteristic, but he's playing it innocent: "We're both adults, Yuuri. Seung Gil gave me reason to believe he was interested, so I made the next move. By the way, it doesn't feel good to be rejected. Not that you would know."

He makes it sound like a barb, somehow, as if Victor's steady reciprocation of his feelings were a negative thing. Yuuri doesn't like that. He doesn't take the bait, but he doesn't hold back, either. "Phichit, you can't just turn around and pretend that sex is a casual thing for you. We both know it's not. I don't know if you're, like—trying to rewrite your sexual history or something—"

"That's not fair!"

"—but this isn't the way to do it," Yuuri continues.

Phichit turns away and crosses his arms. Yuuri knows him well enough to distinguish actual anger from his normal pouty affectations; can see it in the thinness of his lips, the set of his jaw. "I thought you'd be more supportive," says Phichit, without looking at him.

"I support you, Phichit-kun. The _real_ you."

"Oh, so now I'm not even an actual person."

"You're twisting my words."

"Am I?" asks Phichit. "You've been trying to—to dehumanize me for ages now by making me small, making me a victim—"

 _Dehumanize_. That hurts. It really fucking hurts. Tears spring unbidden to Yuuri's eyes, and his throat closes up; he can barely get the words out: "Is that how you see me?" he demands. "Subhuman, because I'm a victim?"

Phichit flinches. He turns back to Yuuri, catches his face between both hands and commands his watery gaze. "No," he says vehemently. "No, I'm so sorry, Yuuri. I didn't mean it like that."

Great. Now he's crying. Yuuri tries to push Phichit away, but Phichit persists, swiping the tears with his thumbs as they fall. And fuck, they've got an audience now. People are staring, and the plane is too quiet, and JJ has woken up and is trying too hard to look like he's reading. A flight attendant materializes from the front of the plane and kneels next to them, offering him a small, purple packet.

"Would you like a lavender tissue?" she asks gently.

It's such a bizarre extravagance that Yuuri has to snort a little; it derails them so completely. "Okay," he says, pulling a single sheet free. He holds it in his hand until she walks away, then stares up at Phichit, who is looking at him with a guilty, thinly-concealed smile. "I have a lavender tissue," he announces.

Phichit giggles helplessly, and Yuuri laughs with him, rubbing it gently against his nose.

"Yuuri," says Phichit, when his breaths finally begin to calm, "I didn't mean that. Please forgive me. What I meant was that you seem determined to—I don't know. Break me? Why do you want to do that? I'm doing well; I've come to terms with the parts of that night that I didn't enjoy. I'm fine. I understand that what happened to you was different than what happened to me—"

"That's the thing, Phichit. It _wasn't_ different."

"It was completely different! You were unwilling; you're in a relationship already. I'm not committed to anyone like you are."

Okay, that's a new argument, one that Yuuri hadn't anticipated. Thank god it's so ridiculous that it's not hard at all to counter. He lowers his voice again. "So single people can't be raped?"

Phichit groans. "Can you please stop using that word?"

"What would you prefer?"

"I'd prefer not to talk about this at all."

"That's the problem, Phichit-kun. If we could just discuss it, I'd stop pestering you."

Check and mate. Phichit's mouth open and closes wordlessly as he flounders, cycling through anger and confusion and spite before settling for a weirdly blank, unalarmed expression. He scratches the side of his nose with one finger, idling. "Well, what?" he asks, purposely guileless. "I don't really have anything to contribute. What is it you want to say?"

Yuuri takes a deep breath. This is the opportunity he's been waiting for; he's terrified he'll mess it up. "Phichit," he says, achingly careful, "at _best_ , you had uncomfortable, unprotected sex outside a nightclub with a stranger while I was being attacked. It can't have been a pleasant experience."

"I was terrified for you," Phichit concedes, his voice low.

Now they're getting somewhere. "Thank you, but we're talking about you right now. Take me out of the equation. The man who—the man you slept with—you didn't know him. He was rough with you. He didn't—prepare you."

"'Prepare' me?" Phichit echoes.

"Physically, I mean. He didn't—use anything."

Phichit squints at him. "I don't follow."

He doesn't— _oh_. Oh my _god_. Phichit doesn't know about lubrication. Yuuri stares at him in horror, completely thrown again. What is he supposed to do with this? He can't give Phichit a full gay sex talk on an airplane ride.

The anxiety sets in almost immediately. This is—he wasn't prepared for this. He needs time to regroup, to change everything he was going to say. He—

"Hey," says JJ, leaning against Phichit's seat. It's obvious from his tentative expression that he's not sure if he should be interrupting, but he wants to offer Yuuri an out, just in case he needs it. He holds up a deck of cards. "Poker?"

Yuuri's heart pulses with gratitude, but—"I don't know how to play."

"You don't know how to play poker, and you're going to Vegas?" JJ says incredulously, then clambers over Phichit to sit down in the empty stretch of seat between them. "Okay, time for you to learn from a master. Seven-card stud. Do you have any coins, or are we going to bet with psychological issues so I get a handicap?"

"Did you seriously just say that?" says Phichit, laughing.

"Uh. Apparently. Yikes. C'mon, let's play."

JJ shuffles like he talks: smooth, effortless, unapologetic. Yuuri finds himself mesmerized by the easy beauty of his hands as he deals the pinup girl cards, and thinks that everything's like this, maybe; everything is a gamble. Phichit eyes him guiltily, but with no small amount of relief, probably understanding what kind of conversation he'd dodged. Yuuri briefly clasps his shoulder in one tight hand to let him know that it's okay, but this isn't over. He just needs to rework his strategy around the new knowledge of Phichit's sexual innocence.

He needs a new battle plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for your support! Your incredible comments continue to fuel faster updates and tons of warm, fuzzy feelings in me. I have a question for you about the trajectory of this fic: do you want to see more airplane stuff, or would you just as soon they land by the next chapter? I've got drafts started of both.
> 
> I hope you are all having a great day.


	7. Chapter 7

Plot twist: Yuuri actually wrecks JJ and Phichit at seven-card stud. Phichit's got absolutely no poker face—he frowns, giggles, and gasps every time someone deals—and JJ's good, but he keeps pulling useless hands that Yuuri calls him on. "I can't read you at all, Katsuki," he grumbles, squinting. "Are you the world's best bluffer, or are you really just that dead inside?"

"Dead inside," says Yuuri, neatly laying down three of a kind. JJ and Phichit groan.

"Shenanigans," Phichit declares, smacking his cards down on Yuuri's tray, which is lined with the pennies and peanuts they were betting with. "When you win big in Vegas, you've got to cut us in for like forty percent as your sensei and your best friend."

"Depends on how much help I get with my luggage once we land."

"Ooh, Yuuri, you learn fast."

"The power has gone to my head." 

Eventually Phichit begins nodding off, and they decide to let him rest. JJ returns to his seat, and Yuuri wanders back to coach to visit with Victor, who somehow senses his approach and removes his sleeping mask just in time to catch Yuuri with a lingering kiss on the lips. "Well, hello there," he says drowsily. He's lucky enough to have an empty seat on his right, which Yuuri takes.

"How has the flight been?" he asks.

Victor shrugs. "Quiet."

It is unusually still. It'd only be about 2:00 p.m. in Seoul, but the passengers are sparse and mostly asleep, their shades pulled. Yuri and Otabek are curled against each other, hands linked. Seung Gil is listening to music to Victor's left, and Christophe's reading Whitman, pensive and handsome in thin wire-framed glasses. Yuuri feels a sigh coming on and doesn't have enough energy to stifle it. He nestles against Victor, laying his head on his firm bicep.

"I take it the talk with Phichit didn't go well," says Victor.

"Could've gone a lot better." Yuuri hesitates. He doesn't want to violate Phichit's privacy, but he really needs someone to talk to, someone to help him re-center himself a little. He switches to Japanese. "He's not doing very well. He's still insists that he wasn't attacked."

"How can he possibly deny it at this point?" says Victor in Russian.

"I don't know. Especially with his injuries." Yuuri abbreviates Seung Gil's name so it isn't recognizable by ear: "He offered to give S.G. oral sex, but he refused, thank god."

Without opening his eyes, Seung Gil says, in English, "It wouldn't have been right."

Victor and Yuuri flinch. Hard. "You know Japanese?" says Yuuri numbly.

Seung Gil removes one earbud. "Just enough, apparently."

"Oh my god," says Yuuri, chagrined. "I—I'm so sorry—"

"I understand it isn't personal. If I were you, I'd likely be discussing it too."

There's a long, uncomfortable silence. Yuuri's flushing so hotly he's sure Victor can feel it; he takes off his glasses and runs an embarrassed hand down his face. When he finally works up enough nerve to glance up again, Seung Gil is watching him, his eyes dark and steady. He peeks over his shoulder at Christophe, who appears absorbed in his book, and Yuri and Otabek, still sleeping in the same beautifully vulnerable position.

"I blame myself for at least part of it," he says softly. "I admitted to him that I've had feelings for him for quite some time. It was not appropriate."

Yuuri's heart pounds. He has always wondered if Seung Gil felt tenderly toward Phichit; the knowledge inspires in him something viscerally hopeful. "You have?"

"Yes. I admire him deeply. Seeing him so injured was—it devastated me. I didn't want to leave him. Couldn't leave him, not like that." 

"What did you talk about in the hospital?" Victor asks curiously.

"I just read to him. _Howard's End_ , Forster."

"I've never heard of it."

"It's about values," Seung Gil says, sitting up a little straighter. "Why people are what they are." He pauses. "It's my favorite novel."

Yuuri doesn't know what to say to that. He has no idea why people are the way they are, why they love or cry or rape. He lowers his eyes, and Victor places a hand on his knee, warm and bracing.

The plane hops a little as they hit a patch of rough air, and Yuri wakes up with a sharp shriek in the silent cabin, slapping Otabek reflexively across the chest. Despite the tension, Victor and Yuuri try unsuccessfully not to laugh, and even Seung Gil covers what might be a smile with his hand. Yuri pants, pupils shrunk to pinpricks. "Fuck everything," he says breathlessly, clearly baffled. "Where are—? Uh—?"

"We're okay," says Otabek, rubbing his chest with one hand and holding Yuri's with the other. "We're about halfway through the flight."

"Oh," says Yuri. His softly helpless expression hardens into defensiveness. "The fuck you giggling about, Katsudon?"

"You," says Yuuri honestly. Yuri doesn't scare him anymore. "So cute."

"Sh-shut up!" Yuri stutters, in flustered Russian, and Yuuri and Victor start snickering again, repeating 'shut up' over and over until Yuri's ears are red.

"Sounds like people are having too much fun without me," says Christophe, smiling and finally closing his book around his thumb. "Oh, Yuuri, hello. You deign to visit us here in steerage?"

"I'm ballin'," says Yuuri, ignoring the roar of laughter that goes around at his slang as he fills them in on his poker experience with JJ and Phichit. "I destroyed them," he finishes. "I won all of their gourmet peanuts and I ate them all while they watched."

"Yes, Katsuki Yuuri, you are a true badass," says Yuri without emotion.

"Sh-shut up," says Yuuri in Russian.

"Shut up!" Yuri yells back.

Yuuri grins, turning instinctively to share a glance with Phichit before remembering that he's still up in first class, hopefully getting some much-needed rest. He sobers, nibbling on a fingernail. He must be making some sort of face, because when he looks up again, everyone is regarding him with careful interest. He forces a smile.

"How are you?" asks Christophe kindly, without pressure.

"Okay," says Yuuri after a long moment. "I'm glad Phichit-kun is healing so well physically, but I'm not so sure this trip was a good idea for him."

"He was asking about _you_ , but I'll bite," says Yuri. "Why do you think that?"

"Because Las Vegas is so—so much, you know? So much light and sound and—"

"Sexuality," says Seung Gil. There: it's out. Everyone quiets.

"Oh, come on," says Yuri at last. "Stop fussing over him; he's not made of glass. He said he wanted to go. If you wanted to protest, you should've done it at that breakfast, not on the connecting flight to Denver."

"It is a little late for take-backsies, but for the record, I agree with you, Yuuri," says Christophe. "I think we all got a bit—swept up."

" _Tigers_ ," says Yuri exasperatedly.

Otabek clears his throat suddenly, pulling a backpack out from beneath the seat in front of him and digging through it for a small packet of papers. He looks uncertain. "I—made an itinerary," he says in his low, brusque voice. "I was also concerned about overexposure to—er, unsavory parts of the city, so I threw together a sort of guide. We don't have to follow it, of course, but I believe it hits upon most of the tourist attractions and circumvents a lot of the debauchery."

It's the most Yuuri has ever heard him speak at once. His English is excellent, gorgeously accented, and his putting in so much effort—partly for Yuri's sake, certainly, but also with Phichit and Yuuri's safety clearly in mind—it makes Yuuri's chest tighten with gratitude. "Otabek, that's so kind of you," he says quietly.

"It was nothing," says Otabek, sounding almost shy. He half-smiles. "I hope you wanted to see Skrillex and Avicii."

"Is that a Cirque du Soleil thing?" asks Victor.

Otabek closes his eyes briefly, pained. "You have a lot to learn," he says simply, pulling out his phone and passing Victor an earbud. 

While his fiancé gets lectured on Vegas' DJing scene, Yuuri sits back to admire Otabek. He doesn't know the man well, but he appreciates his skating and his cautious, affectionate treatment of Yuri. He's gentlemanly, kind of awkward. Yuuri can certainly relate to that. His eyes shine handsomely as he discusses his musical interests, the same way Seung Gil's face lit up when he spoke about Forster. Yuuri realizes abruptly how little he really knows about some of his friends, and feels a spark of excitement and nerves as he imagines the trip before them, the close quarters and experiences they are going to share together.

Eventually Otabek shifts his attention to Seung Gil and Christophe, and Victor excuses himself to use the restroom. Yuuri watches him walk away with mild panic, hands tightening on the armrests. He— _misses_ him somehow. They're so close, yet Yuuri longs for him, feels helpless and faraway. He waits until everyone is either engaged in conversation or pretending to be, then he slips out of his seat and follows Victor down the aisle.

Victor is just opening the lavatory door again when Yuuri gets there. Without looking around to see who's watching—that'd make it even more obvious—he pushes Victor back into the bathroom, steps in with him, and lets the door shut behind them.

"Yuuri?" asks Victor, confused. "What—?"

Yuuri kisses him. Victor's mouth tighten briefly in surprise, then his lips go pliant, and he begins kissing back with uninhibited fervor. It's the first time they've kissed, really kissed, since Seung Gil told Yuuri he was no longer contagious. Victor pins Yuuri against the door and seizes his face with both hands, tongue desperate between Yuuri's teeth. He resets one foot between Yuuri's. Yuuri parts his legs to accommodate him, and he feels Victor's hardness there, large and urgent against his hip.

With a jolt of guilt, Yuuri realizes how long it's been since they've been passionately intimate with each other. There were the strangely clinical handjobs and the separate showers, and there have been some brief touches and quick, panicky kisses, but Yuuri hasn't been tender or—or _generous_ with Victor in ages.

What a terrible lover he has been. A wave of self-hatred rolls over him. Just because some things happened to him—to neglect his duties as a fiancé, to make _Victor_ suffer for it—

Hands shaking, Yuuri grips the button on Victor's trousers and begins to sink to his knees.

Immediately, Victor catches his elbows and pulls him upright again. "Yuuri," he says. "What are you doing?"

Flushing, Yuuri makes vague gestures. "I—I just—"

"Just?" says Victor, then sighs quietly. His hands slide to Yuuri's wrists, and he raises them to his mouth, pressing slow, damp kisses to the delicate bones and veins there. His breath is hot and sweet with coffee. "I won't tell you what to do, darling," he says. "Or what not to do. But I urge you to consider your own motives and feelings and make sure that you are safe, willing, and happy with whatever it is you would like to share with me now."

"I just want you to feel good," Yuuri whispers.

"You make me feel _wonderful_ ," Victor promises. He nuzzles Yuuri's neck, lays one feathery kiss to the soft skin behind his ear. "Absolutely wonderful, Yuuri."

Yuuri's throat closes up, not in panic, but in gratitude. Tears blur his vision. He strokes Victor's face, studying his pale eyelashes, the smooth slopes of his cheeks. "What did I do to deserve you?" he asks softly.

"I ask myself the same thing every day," Victor says. He leans forward, lets their foreheads touch. Keeps his eyes open. "All this time, Yuuri, and I still have to catch my breath whenever I see you."

A sob trembles out of him. He covers his face with one arm, and Victor pulls it away, lifting his glasses so he can kiss away the tears as they fall. Yuuri giggles, embarrassed. Victor smiles then, gentle and achingly fond, and Yuuri accidentally kisses him soundly on the teeth. "Oops," he mumbles, but Victor is already past it, hands sliding down his ribs to rest carefully on his hips.

It's the first time he's been touched there since the assault, and it feels different. _Okay_. Victor's touch is nothing like the man before him, the one who'd bent him over and shoved and yanked and forced, and Yuuri feels the smallest pang of arousal—not enough to pursue, but it's hopeful, the possibility that one day things might be normal again. Because that's the worst of it: Yuuri feels wrong. Wrong and ugly and changed. He can't bear to see himself naked anymore; the disgust starts rolling over him in sick waves, and he thinks about Victor's clean, slow kissing. Yuuri's not like that anymore. He's—used. _A slut's mouth._ Yuuri's tongue touches Victor's again, and this time he tastes something rancid in his own breath, something that spreads like illness—

He breaks away, panting. The tears start again, fat and humiliated. Victor sees the difference and gazes at him with love and alarm, moving his hands from his hips to his forearms.

"Talk to me, baby," he whispers urgently. "Please. _Please_ talk to me."

Yuuri shakes his head. His whole body feels tight and frightened. Are there any words? Victor saw him being taken by other men. He is no longer faithful. He doesn't know if he even deserves this, and on top of that there's Phichit to worry about, his sexual inexperience and career and the terrible things that were done to him. How can he even think of himself when Phichit is so injured? How could he be so selfish?

Victor sits down on the lidded toilet and eases Yuuri into his lap, wrapping his arms securely around his shoulders. He begins to rock him back and forth. 

"You can tell me anything," he says. "You know that, don't you?"

"There's nothing to say," Yuuri says, choked.

"There's too much, Yuuri. Too much you haven't said to me. I can't even guess at what you're feeling—"

"I'm fine, Victor. I'm just worried about Phichit."

"I am too, but I'm not talking about him right now," says Victor. "I'm talking about _you_."

Yuuri's sobs redouble. He flings his arms around Victor's neck and holds on for dear life, burying his face in the crook of his neck. "It was only my body," he tells himself, muffled, and only realizes he'd spoken aloud when Victor replies.

"It was your body and your mind and your heart. It was everything."

"It wasn't! I'm not—I'm not that compromised. I'm not—"

"You are badly hurt, and you don't even know it."

"That's not fair," says Yuuri, crying. He's mad, suddenly. He tries to pull away, but Victor's embrace is firm. "You're not me! You don't get to choose that!"

"Phichit's pelvis was fractured," says Victor. "It wasn't a matter of deciding whether or not he was injured. It's a fact."

"That's not the same!"

"They're closer than you'd imagine." Victor holds him tighter. Yuuri slowly stops struggling, exhausted, and Victor lets him tire himself out until he's resting against his chest, eyelids drooping. Victor strokes his hair back from his forehead, rubs his temples until his headache starts to abate. When Yuuri finally raises his gaze to meet his, Victor kisses him, then pulls back and swallows visibly. "Yuuri," he says. "I think I understand what you mean when you say 'I can't,' but I'd like to hear it from you. What are you talking about? What can't you do?"

Yuuri shakes his head. His tears have stopped; he sniffles a few times, tugs a square of toilet tissue from the dispenser, and uses it to wipe his nose. "We're going to have a great vacation," he says. He doesn't even try to hide the subject change. "Let's not ruin it, okay?"

Victor sighs deeply. "I'm here for you whenever you need me," he says. "Any time, any place. I'm here for you."

"We'll see shows," says Yuuri, with a fragile smile. "We'll have romantic dinners."

"Yes," says Victor. "Yes, we will."

They sit there together until someone knocks on the door, then pull themselves together, prepare to exit hand-in-hand with as much dignity as possible. Luckily it's Yuri on the other side, and he eyes them, their mussed hair and swollen lips. "Disgusting," he grumbles simply, then scoots past them. He slams the door shut. The _Occupied_ button flashes on, red and accusatory.

Yuuri returns to his seat at the front of the plane, carefully stepping around Phichit, who is still asleep with his cheek resting in one hand. Yuuri stares at him lovingly. He looks so young. Slowly, so as not to disturb him, he reaches into his carry-on and takes out a book of his own. It's bland and empty; he scans the words for hours without reading them.

They're still five hours out from Denver when Phichit sobs suddenly, startling himself awake. Tears pour down his cheeks. "What?" he says weakly, shaking—and turns, registering Yuuri slowly, his eyes wide and fragile. "Oh, Yuuri, I had a terrible dream," he whimpers. "We were in the coffee shop in Detroit, at our table, and suddenly the floor started falling away—the tiles were breaking off, and there was water below them; it was so deep that you couldn't even see the bottom—"

"Shh, it's okay," Yuuri soothes, taking his hands.

"If we crash now, we're going to be in the ocean," Phichit babbles, still mostly asleep. "We're going to drown."

"The bottoms of our seats operate as flotation devices," Yuuri reminds him, using such a stuffy flight attendant voice that Phichit stares at him for a long moment, confusedly amused. He squeezes his eyes shut. When he finally opens them again, they're lucid, dry.

"Ugh," he says. "I haven't had a nightmare in ages."

"What do you usually dream about?" Yuuri asks curiously.

"You know. Skating. Dancing. Cute animals."

"Like a Disney princess," says Yuuri, laughing.

"Yes. Exactly like that, except with more opioids." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, grimacing in pain as he tries to get his hips squared. Before Yuuri can ask him how he's feeling, he settles down, sighs, and turns on him with a bright, sleepy smile. "And how about you? Have you started dreaming again?"

"No," says Yuuri. He shrugs. "But I'm getting enough sleep. That's what counts, right?"

Phichit shrugs back at him, squinting. After a long, quiet moment, he places his hand on Yuuri's. "You know, you can talk to me about anything," he says, and so vividly echoes Victor that Yuuri is briefly disarmed.

"I—I know. Thank you. And you can talk to me, too."

"There's nothing to talk about!" says Phichit, and he's Yuuri himself now, avoidant and glib and insistent. He seems to realize he's being defensive and quickly dials it back. "If I ever have anything interesting to say, don't worry, Yuuri. You're still my go-to guy."

Yuuri wants to believe that. He stares at Phichit, heart heavy with fondness. "I love you," he says.

Phichit looks surprised, then pleased. "You're—you're okay to kiss now, right?"

"Right," says Yuuri, puckering up.

"I can't kiss you when you're making a fish face," Phichit laughs, and after Yuuri's mouth finally slackens after laughing himself, Phichit leans in and kisses him.

Yuuri's eyes widen. It's not their normal kiss. It's—sadder somehow, loaded with intent, and when Phichit presses his tongue inside, Yuuri's lips part and he finds himself _wanting_ to surge into it, wanting to really feel it, but utterly unable to. Undeterred by his lack of reciprocation, Phichit slowly licks out the inside of his mouth, touching every surface, every nerve and tooth and angle. It's like he's cataloguing something. His fingers tangle with Yuuri's, and he leans in, his breath hot and his mouth wide. It's not romantic, but it's not casual, either. When he finally pulls back, a thread of saliva connects them, and Yuuri's hands fly to his face in breathless confusion.

"Phichit?" he pants.

"I love you too," says Phichit quietly. Then he smiles, takes out his phone, and begins tapping away. "Oh my god, the plane has wi-fi! Time to return to Instagram, Forty-Thousand Feet Up Edition. I'm emerging from my cocoon, Yuuri. I'm a fucking butterfly."

Yuuri sits back in his seat, confused. He touches his lips, stares at Phichit, but Phichit is casually avoiding his stare, as if nothing is amiss.

Only when he's fully absorbed in his feed does Yuuri realize why the kiss _hurt_ , and it makes every inch of him seize in fright. 

It was like he was saying goodbye.


	8. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aah, this isn't really a chapter--it's just a few POV-violating asides that I felt needed a place in the narrative without retroactively editing them in. I thought here, before the Vegas arc proper, would be a good place for them. I might add more of them later, and will let you know if I do! I'm sorry, review replies are going to be a little bit late because I'm going to visit a friend in a bit. Thanks for your patience!
> 
> Content warnings for discussion of noncon, oral sex, and foreplay. I'm sorry to all the people I confused with the Yuuri-Phichit kissing! I hope this clarifies some of that.

The first time they kiss in front of Victor, they don't even think about it. They're at a mochi shop in Tokyo, and Yuuri must look tasty, because Phichit leans in and gives him a healthy smack right on the lips. "Delicious," he says, giggling, and Yuuri laughs too and pursues him for a kiss of his own, thoroughly sampling the red bean and green tea flavoring in his friend's mouth before he pulls back.

"Uh?" says Victor then, distant and baffled, and their faces both flame.

"Oh my god," says Yuuri breathlessly. "Victor, I'm so sorry—it's just something we do—"

"You kiss each other," Victor clarifies. "With tongue. In front of each other's fiancés." His voice is absolutely unreadable. He meets Yuuri's eyes squarely, helplessly waiting for an explanation, and Phichit mumbles something in Thai and makes himself scarce after giving Yuuri's elbow an encouraging little tweak. Normally it would've been a kiss on the cheek. Yuuri prefers kisses, but he'll take every pinch in the world if it means holding onto Victor. He takes Victor's right hand in both of his, raising it to his mouth.

"Victor, sweetheart," he says, seriously and without petulance, "I wasn't thinking. I will stop immediately, of course. You're my One."

"I understand that," says Victor. "That's why I'm confused."

"We just—we kiss. We always have. It doesn't mean anything romantic; it's just something we both enjoy."

Victor tilts his head. His eyes are contemplative. "That simple, truly?"

"Yes," says Yuuri. Then, at the heaviness in his stomach, "No."

He doesn't know where to begin. He stares at the rainbow rows of mochi in their display case, pretty and pastel and blending softly together. He blinks hard when his eyes start stinging. He will not cry now; it wouldn't be fair to Victor. Instead, he clears his throat and tilts his head toward the back of the shop, indicating that he wants more privacy. Victor comes with him willingly until they are standing near the restrooms, out of Phichit's line of vision.

"Back in Detroit," says Yuuri haltingly, "we learned to kiss with each other. I can't tell you it never meant anything, at least on my end, but we trusted each other with it, and still do."

"You loved Phichit?" asks Victor. Now there's emotion dawning in his expression, understanding and, stunningly, fear. Yuuri clasps his face quickly between his hands, leaning over so their foreheads touch.

"No! Not like that. But it wasn't—nothing. A kiss could never mean nothing to me. Wait—did I say that right? 'Never mean nothing…?'"

He and Victor separate, struggling to puzzle out the double negative, and laugh when they realize what they're both doing. With some difficulty, Yuuri switches to his rudimentary Russian.

"It has meaning. It means love, but there is more than one love."

"Friendship?"

"'Friendship' is—too small."

Victor nods. He's starting to get it now, which makes him one-up on Yuuri, who still can't find the words for it. He kisses Phichit because Phichit is comfort, home. Phichit is safe and familiar and unselfish, and Victor is all of that on fire, tempered by need. Still a little bit scary, if you want to be honest, but only because there's more at stake.

"One time in Detroit, I had a panic attack," says Yuuri, switching back to English. "I can't even remember what it was about, but we were in public, and Phichit just put his mouth on mine and started breathing for me. Inhaling and exhaling, forcing me to follow his rhythm, and people were staring and he just kept saying, 'It's okay, Yuuri. In. Out. Everything is okay.' He wasn't ashamed at all, and that made me think that maybe I was—all right. Maybe we both were, and are. Two days later, I came out. Does that make any sense?"

"It does," says Victor. He kisses Yuuri himself, then, and it's different; it's always been different because of the measure of desire in it, the intent. When he pulls back, he licks his lips and smiles. "Christophe and I like to slap each other's asses," he says.

Yuuri grins and blushes.

When they finally reemerge into the seating area of the café, Phichit has a pretty pink box with him. He smiles nervously at Victor, and when Victor smiles back, Phichit hands him a little white sphere of mochi, his fingertips dusty. "Here, I got this for you," he says. "Since you're so, you know. Vanilla."

Victor and Yuuri stare at him for a moment in shock before they start laughing.

"Phichit-kun, you can't say things like that," Yuuri scolds, and kisses Phichit hard, catching him with his mouth open and everything. Phichit's eyes fly open, and he stares at Victor with alarm, but Victor only meets his gaze with an amused smile and takes a bite of vanilla mochi. 

* * *

"So what happens to them?" asks Otabek. "Where do they go now?"

"They'll remain in detention here to prevent their departure from the country," says Seung Gil. "They have Canadian citizenship."

"Fucking Canadians," says JJ, with a weak laugh.

Christophe is quiet. He hasn't known what to say since he phoned the police, since he got pulled into the scuffle with Otabek and JJ to detain the men who attacked Phichit and Yuuri. They'd only managed to keep two of assailants on-site: the third, the one with the blue hat, had escaped into the neon evening. The helplessness that'd flooded Chris at seeing him flee still hasn't dissipated. He feels powerless, grim. He can't imagine what Yuuri and Phichit must be going through.

And say what you will about Jean-Jacques, but the guy is good in a fight. He and Otabek had been the ones to engage the men physically, and their knuckles show it, bruised black and purple and still concealed beneath the gloves from their skating routines. They hadn't wanted to remind anyone. It'd been agony watching them perform badly in Grant Prix, and in a way, Chris is angry at himself for skating reasonably well. Yuri makes sense; that boy thrives in bittersweet beauty, but what was his own excuse? Was he really that unaffected? He hadn't thrown any punches in their defense. Hadn't held Phichit's broken body to calm him, like Seung Gil had; hadn't pressed a jacket between Yuuri's thighs to stem the bleeding, like Victor. _Did I do my best?_ he can't stop asking himself. _Did I do all that I could?_

He sits in Phichit's room as he sleeps and conducts low, empty conversation with Celestino Cialdini. Seung Gil is silent. Yuri, Otabek, and JJ play cards with a deck JJ carries around, all three of them exhausted, speaking rarely. Yuuri doesn't want to see them—can't see them, not yet—and Phichit has only been conscious once, asking about the Grand Prix.

"It's over," Cialdini had said softly.

"For me, or for everyone?" Phichit asked, voice hoarse.

"For everyone, but Phichit—you won't skate again. Not the same way, at least."

Phichit, foggy from the painkillers, had merely nodded once in acknowledgement, closed his eyes, and gone back to sleep. They're still not sure if he understands.

Now Chris, JJ, Otabek, and Seung Gil are standing outside his room, awkwardly sharing a cup of water while a nurse freshens up Phichit's sheets. They're a strange group, none of them with any real connection to one another except that night, that trauma. Chris must have some sort of unusual expression on his face, because they're all regarding him when he looks up. JJ touches his shoulder.

"You okay, man? You've been quiet," he says.

Christophe purses his lips. He's not sure how to articulate his feelings. "I'm just—upset. I know we all are. I'd like us to keep this quiet online and in the skating community, if we can."

"Of course," says Otabek, and the others nod.

"You never think a thing like this could happen to people you know," says JJ.

"No," Christophe agrees. "You don't."

Yuri returns from the restroom. His eyes are swollen, and there's a huge bruise blossoming on his cheek from where the man had struck him. It's so ugly. Wrong. He's only, what? Seventeen, eighteen? No one should have seen what he did that night. "I gotta get out of here," Yuri mutters, snuggling into his jacket. "I can't stand the hospital smell anymore. You guys wanna grab a bite to eat?" He pauses. "That's not—weird, is it? We're friends?"

"Yes," says Christophe. "We are friends."

They end up at some Italian food restaurant in Seoul, absurdly, and laugh about it later. They're tired, but conversation runs freely—they talk about skating, their pets, their aspirations. JJ wants to take a cooking class. Otabek DJs, and Seung Gil intends to go back to school at some point, but he's not sure what to study. "Major in Awkward Avoidance of Serious Discussion," JJ suggests, which Yuri finds deliciously funny, and laughs about until there are tears in his eyes.

Chris finds himself uncharacteristically silent again, but he smiles as he watches them. These are good people, he realizes. Strong, each in their own way, and talented, and kind. Most of all, kind. It's been a dark few days, but there's still beauty in the world somewhere, and Christophe trusts that he can find it with them.

He just hopes that Yuuri and Phichit can, too.

* * *

"'What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into yours, we thought—haven't we all to struggle against life's daily greyness, against pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against—'"

"Fake it 'til you make it," Phichit interrupts.

Seung Gil pauses, finger poised on the page. "Sorry?"

"'Mechanical cheerfulness.' If you pretend to be cheerful for long enough, you will be! Simple as that."

"Thanks, Neurotypical Nelson," says Yuri from where he's sitting sideways in an armchair, batting away the box of tissue Phichit hurls at him. "No, really! It's not that easy. It's like a physical injury. You can't just talk yourself out of a shattered pelvis."

"Watch me," challenges Phichit.

"Nelson, I do not have time for your bullsh—fuck, Thailand, stop throwing things at me!"

Seung Gil watches this exchange silently. He doesn't quite understand the 'Nelson' thing, but he envies the easy way Yuri speaks to Phichit, the jibes they exchange without malice—it's as if they've been friends for years, though Seung Gil knows that they've only gotten close since the attack. He supposes things have to change after an event so harrowing. Yuri's face is bruised from the blow he'd taken in Phichit's defense. A gesture like that affects a person, affects a relationship. Seung Gil's throat tightens as Phichit runs out of cards and pens to toss at Yuri and settles back against his pillows, sighing. He reaches out and touches Seung Gil's hand, his eyes huge and bright.

"Sorry about that," he says. "Keep reading, please."

Seung Gil scans the page, but his mind is still with that evening. It'd started with the stomach-dropping realization of Phichit and Yuuri's lengthy absences, and hasn't really ended yet. He'd been the first person to hear them screaming outside. Seeing them like that—seeing Phichit on the ground, seeing Yuuri wrenched into such a violent position—is burned into him, and it's not fair. It's not who they are. It shouldn't be allowed into the catalogs of them that Seung Gil holds in his secret heart.

The worst part was having to translate their police statements. It made him privy to knowledge that was none of his business. _He tried to kiss me_ , Phichit had said haltingly, vying for casualness. _He—put his fingers inside me. He held my legs open and started moving really hard when I insulted him._

_I—I shouldn't have insulted him._

_You did just fine_ , Seung Gil thought; thinks. _You did beautifully. You are so, so beautiful._

Preoccupied, he fumbles to find his place in the novel again. Phichit waits patiently as he searches. Their gazes catch when Seung Gil glances up, and he's alarmed to see that Phichit's eyes have grown damp. He slowly closes the book and waits.

"Can I stay with you, Seung Gil?" Phichit whispers, after a long moment. "When I leave the hospital, I mean. I don't know if you've got a hotel room around here, or if you're going back to your hometown, but—"

"Yes," says Seung Gil. "I will accompany you wherever you wish to go."

Phichit swallows hard, then smiles, grateful and rueful. "You've been so good to me." He raises his voice. "Everyone has. Thank you."

"Haven't done shit," says Yuri.

"You've done more than you'll ever know. I'm so happy for the chance to get to know you two better, and Otabek and JJ and Chris."

Yuri makes a shy, desultory noise. Seung Gil feels himself beginning to blush and busies himself fluffing Phichit's pillows again. Phichit's smell is uncharacteristically chemical now, like rubbing alcohol and soap and used gauze batting. Still lovely, somehow, because it belongs to him. Seung Gil wishes he could kiss him. Instead, he takes his hand—really holds it; not just a fleeting touch—and his heart thuds in his chest as Phichit squeezes back. He lowers his head. Reads on:

"'I struggle by remembering my friends; others I have known by remembering some place—some beloved place or tree—we thought you one of these.'"

* * *

Amid the cacophony of all of his new, nervous friendships, Otabek remains silent.

They acknowledge his presence, always, with their body language if not their words, but they let him just—be. They don't demand of him anything that he doesn't want to give. They let him be quiet. He is not usually a part of their conversations, yet they don't talk around him—they're curious, he knows, but he also knows that they are patient. That first-meeting ice melts slowly, a molecule at a time, and they trust him enough to wait for it.

"They like you," Yuri tells him, as they're packing up to leave for the self-defense course. "You would know if they didn't. They'd deny it, but Phichit and Yuuri would get all Regina George and Gretchen on you, respectively."

"That makes you Karen," Otabek points out, shocking a laugh out of him.

"Oh my god, you've seen Mean Girls?"

"I am a wealth of pop culture knowledge," Otabek says dryly—he'd only lucked out this time; he'd reluctantly watched the movie once during a long flight—and damned if it doesn't earn him a kiss from Yuri, quick and affectionate. His heart soars.

"We have so much to learn about each other," Yuri says, poking him in the ribs.

Otabek flinches, smiles. "That's a good thing, yes?"

"A very, very good thing."

Yuri's wearing leggings and one of Otabek's sleeping shirts to the class. He's trying to kill him. Otabek stares at the pretty curve of his spine and ass as they walk to the hotel elevators, their fingers gingerly intertwined.

He knows something is wrong the instant they begin the self-defense class. Yuri's posture grows rigid, defensive; he taps his foot and holds his hands differently, struggling for nonchalance. Otabek doesn't ask him if he's okay—he's not; they both know he's not—but he respects Yuri enough not to go easy on him as they practice holds. "Ow," Yuri says, trying to free himself from Otabek's grip. "Fucking _ow_ , Altin. It's starting to hurt."

"Then you'd better learn the countermeasure quickly," says Otabek. He kisses the backs of Yuri's hands, but he doesn't let go.

But god, is he right about it hurting: all of it; every part of it. Phichit's walker. His volunteering for the sexual assault component of the class; the sight of his body, so small and hurt, pinned beneath Seung Gil's. And even that couldn't have prepared Otabek for the horror of Yuri's admission.

An instructor had raped him. A fucking _instructor_. Beautiful, impressionable, unready Yuri Plisetsky, eager and innocent and gifted—how had that changed him? What fire in him had that fed, or extinguished? Otabek holds Yuri's hand so tightly it aches, and Yuri clings back, sobbing uncontrollably with his wet lips pressed to Otabek's knuckles. "I'm sorry," he gasps, as soon as Yuuri Katsuki is looking away, crying himself. "I'm so sorry—"

"You have nothing to apologize for," says Victor fiercely. "You were a child. You were deeply mistreated, and we only care for you more because of it."

Otabek is just thankful someone had the words.

When they get back to the hotel, Yuri collapses onto their shared bed. His shoulders begin to shake as he starts to cry again. Otabek lays down behind him, spooning him gently, and inhales the sweet scent of his hair. They stay like that for a long time before Yuri squirms around, his legs tangling with Otabek's, and kisses him with his hot, damp mouth. He tastes like salt.

"I didn't tell you," he struggles, through his sobs, "because I didn't want you to know that I was used."

"You are not used," says Otabek. "You are Yuri Plisetsky."

"Yuri Plisetsky got his eleven-year-old ass fucked on the goddamn floor."

Pain and fury surge through Otabek, tightening his throat. He kisses Yuri's closed, trembling eyelids. "It never should've happened. I hate that you were hurt. I would kill for you, do you know that, Yuri? I would kill for you and I would die for you."

"Why? _Why_?"

"Because I love you."

It's the first time either of them have said it. Yuri's magnificent eyes fly open, and his lips part prettily; Otabek runs a thumb between them and feels the unspoken words shaking there, like a butterfly on a pin. "Otabek," he gasps. "Otabek, I—"

Otabek kisses him. Yuri's mouth opens. Their tongues meet, and Otabek presses it inside in soft, careful pulses, relishing the cry that it rips from Yuri. He's erect. Yuri isn't yet, but he takes Otabek's wrist and guides it up his shirt until his fingertips are brushing one tight pink nipple. Otabek fondles it, pinches, tugs. Yuri moans. His hips rock against Otabek's, and there's interest there now, somehow both hard and soft at the same time as he humps Otabek's thigh. His hands tangle in his hair. He's making gorgeous kitten-sounds, high and young.

This is easily the most physical they have ever been with each other. Before, they'd only kissed. When they pull apart, they're both red and panting, and Yuri touches Otabek's lips.

"I can't finish you," he says, crying. "I'm sorry, I just—not yet—"

"You don't have to do anything. Would you like me to?"

"No. Please. Just—can you keep holding me?"

He doesn't know if he could stop. He removes his hand from beneath his shirt and braces one hand at the small of the back, uses the other to cup Yuri's ass as a measure of comfort, not lust. Yuri curls into the touch. Otabek keeps his embrace firm and loving. His eyes slip shut around tears of his own. God, he's so small—and he used to be smaller.

* * *

"I'll suck your cock if you want," says Phichit softly, fingering the top hem of Seung Gil's jeans. "I'll make it good for you."

Seung Gil pushes him away.

Phichit freezes, shocked. His wide eyes flash with tears. He slowly pulls his hands back into his own lap, then nods tightly, speaking hoarsely through his clenched teeth: "I—I see. I'm sorry, I misinterpreted. You said you liked me, so I just assumed you'd want—"

"I do," Seung Gil insists. "I want it; I want you, but I'm sorry. I just can't—I don't know if—"

"That's right, you _don't_ know," Phichit says. His eyes light up with understanding. "You don't know!"

Seung Gil falls back against the bed, arms crossed over his eyes. For a long time, it's silent except for Phichit's labored breathing. God, he's looking so different these days. So—not artificial, precisely, but _changed_ ; altered in some unwilling way that makes him stand unnaturally tall with his chin a degree too high, something that hardens his eyes and mutes his once loud, open laugh. The sound of Phichit's sudden sobs breaks Seung Gil's heart. He reaches for him, but Phichit scoots away, not meeting his eyes.

"Everyone's treating me like some fucking broken bird or something, and I'm sick of it! I know what I want; I know you want me, too. So why, Seung Gil? Why would you— _humiliate_ me like this?"

"That's wasn't my intention! I care for you deeply, so deeply—"

"Not deeply enough to let me pleasure you!"

"It's not right, Phichit! Now isn't the time. It wouldn't be in your best interests."

"You know _nothing_ about my 'best interests!'" Phichit yells. "Nothing!"

He tries to stand, but his hips are too weak. He cries out in frustration, throaty and furious, then uses the bed frame to wrench himself to his feet. Seung Gil quickly sits up and pushes his walker closer, and Phichit yanks it out of his hands, leaning hard into it as he makes his way painfully toward the door. His legs shake when he reaches for his coat and phone.

"Please don't go," Seung Gil says. He has never begged for anything before in his life, but he begs now, shoulders tight with fear. "Phichit. _Please._ "

"I can't be around you right now," says Phichit. His voice cracks. He laughs. "God, I really thought you liked me!"

Seung Gil can't keep repeating himself. If Phichit doesn't want to hear of Seung Gil's feelings for him, then he won't. But it's not fair. It's not fucking fair.

It's his own fault, in too many ways—he shouldn't have forced Phichit to hear his confession—but it's the assault that's speaking for Phichit now. The expectation of sex. The assumption that that's all people want him for. Phichit is a beautiful young man, likely familiar with being the subject of lust, but having it forcefully enacted upon him connected two wires in him that were never meant to cross. He thinks he's demanded for it; he thinks it's love. It makes Seung Gil want to crush him against his chest and kiss him until Phichit knows that he means it.

"Leave my stuff in the hall," says Phichit. "I'll have JJ or Chris come fetch it in a minute." They're in the same hotel. He swings the door open, taking slow, shaky steps to the left, in the opposite direction of the elevators.

"Don’t try the stairs," says Seung Gil, alarmed.

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want," says Phichit.

He doesn't know why he says it. Because Phichit commands his honesty, maybe; because he respects him enough to always say what he means: "You'll hurt yourself. You're being childish."

"And you're being frigid," Phichit replies. "You're so _cold_ , Seung Gil."

He can't help it. He stiffens as if struck. He's heard that one before; heard it all through school from family, classmates, teachers, instructors. _That strange, cold boy_. Even whilst skating, when passion should be visibly igniting him, like it does Phichit and Yuuri and Yuri Plisetsky. Skating is a burning thing for him, but it must not show on his face for Phichit—sunny, incandescent Phichit—to say something with so much bite.

So he doesn't follow Phichit, who turns toward the elevators after all. He doesn't say anything when Christophe comes to pick up his luggage; just nods and closes the door. He lies back down on the bed. He tries to make himself warm.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm, and what a big storm it's gonna be. Chapter warnings for discussions of abuse and self-harm. P.S. A group of Phichits is called a 'dawn!'

They've arrived.

They're standing together on a sidewalk outside McCarran International Airport looking unintentionally hilarious, if the giggles from passersby and tour groups is any indication. Yuuri eyes his friends, conceding the point: they're backed by a mountain of colorful luggage, they're all wearing solemn expressions and sunglasses, and Yuri is grimly holding a gigantic stuffed tiger in a Harley-Davidson leather jacket that a fan had pressed on him in Denver. Christophe, who has changed into a designer Hawaiian shirt despite the December weather, is the first to speak.

"It's beautiful."

That gets them all laughing. They can just barely see the hotels on the Strip past an ocean of construction, all pale dust and cranes and loaders. It's only four in the afternoon, still light. It's not beautiful yet, at least not from where they're standing, but it will be. Yuuri feels a stab of excitement and nerves and squeezes Phichit's hand, swallowing hard. He hasn't let go of him once except to retrieve his suitcases from the baggage carousel. 

It's a weird kind of dread he's feeling, not low-key, but subliminal somehow. He knows something is wrong, and he doesn't know how to make it better; his defense against this almost-danger is to keep his eyes on Phichit at all times. Phichit's starting to get a little weirded out. He's still smiling, but he keeps glancing sidelong at Yuuri with concern and apprehension, a soft, hollow defeat plainly visible in his expression now that Yuuri knows what to look for. Yuuri stares back, trying to communicate affection and encouragement and pleading in his gaze. _Don't do it, Phichit-kun. I love you. Everyone here loves you. This trip is going to wonderful, because you are a part of it._

Otabek calls the cab company and orders two vans to transport them to their hotel. At Yuri's behest, they're staying at the Mirage, and he's thrumming with eagerness to see the tigers. Yuuri scrolls through his Instagram feed while they wait. The pictures of them from Incheon have just landed online: Yuuri and Victor leaning close together, Chris and JJ rocking designer shades and gorgeous smiles. Phichit in his wheelchair, captioned by #fightclubonice. There's already an uproar in the comments:

 _This fight stuff is bs_ , says madiomack9. _You don't break bones below the waist in pub brawls._

 _@madiomack9 then what do u think happened?_ asks qorb888.

 _@qorb888 something bad, really bad_.

Yuuri turns off his notifications and pockets his phone.

Phichit, however, has his out, and uses it as a means to gently extricate his hand from Yuuri's grip. "We're in Leo de la Iglesia territory," he says, "and I think Guang-Hong is staying with him! I'm going to ask them to meet up with us so we can party."

"Oh, he lives in Nevada?" asks Yuuri.

"No. Colorado Springs. We just missed him in Denver."

"Um, Phichit, the United States isn't like Europe. That's a long ways. He probably can't just take a spur-of-the-moment day trip to—"

Phichit's phone beeps. He beams. "He's going to drive all day and meet us here tomorrow night!"

Yuuri shuts his mouth and sighs, smiling a little. He sometimes forgets how magnetic Phichit is, how appealing it is to be around him. As soon as his phone is tucked away again, Yuuri grabs his hand again and holds on. Phichit squints at him, but doesn't pull away. He probably thinks Yuuri is seeking comfort for himself. He snuggles against him so that their shoulders bump. His pink aviators flash in the desert sun.

The cars arrive to pick them up. It takes them longer to load up their luggage than it does to drive to the hotel: the Mirage is a stone's throw away, nestled between Caesar's Palace and Treasure Island, all three of them spectacular in their breadth and beauty. Yuri and Phichit have their faces pressed to the windows to ooh and aah. Yuuri climbs into Victor's lap to look himself, suddenly shaky with anticipation.

Clusters of palm trees forest the entryway. The landscaping is lush with statuary and small, tiered waterfalls; a volcano emerges proudly from the island that conceals the gigantic front entrance. It's such a different social and physical climate that Yuuri feels simultaneously thrilled and terrified. When the van pulls up to the curb, Victor gets the door for him, and continues holding onto his hand once he's steady on the pavement.

"Tigers!" screeches Yuri. He makes it four steps before Otabek gently seizes him by the waist, holding him in place.

"Let's drop off our luggage first, at least," he says.

They've got four rooms between them. Otabek and Yuri are in a resort queen, Yuuri and Victor are sharing the adjoining suite, Seung Gil's got a single, and Chris, JJ, and Phichit went in together for one of the cheaper two-bedroom penthouses. _I'm sharing a bed with JJ,_ Phichit had said on the plane, winking. _I've always wanted to sleep with royalty._ JJ's the one who retrieves a wheelchair from the front desk to help Phichit through the casino, which tasks the rest of them with transporting the bags. They have to get a bunch of carts. The casino is packed, noisy, glittering. Yuuri smiles, but steps a little closer to Victor, who drops a lingering kiss on his cheek.

"We're here," Victor says, grinning.

"We're here," Yuuri agrees, and kisses him back.

*

Otabek had wisely set aside a two-hour block on the itinerary for the white tiger enclosures. They all meet there after they freshen up, and Yuri straight up starts sobbing when the first tiger makes eye contact with him through the glass. Yuuri and Victor give him space, watching a group of schoolchildren play with the dolphins, and Christophe takes out a small notebook and produces a few small, lovely sketches of the habitat. His friends keep on surprising him with their depth, their talents. Chris allows Yuuri to page through the rest of the notebook, and he sees pictures of himself, Yuri, Victor, Otabek. None of Seung Gil or Phichit, strangely. "I didn't want to interrupt them," Chris says. "It seems like they've a lot on their minds."

Which reminds Yuuri: he glances over his shoulder to make sure Phichit is still poolside with the dolphins, then gestures Chris and Victor closer. "Please do me a favor and watch over him when you can," he says quietly. "I think something is terribly wrong."

"Wrong how?" asks Victor. His eyes flash with concern.

Yuuri doesn't want to use the word yet. It is still unthinkable. "I just have a bad feeling."

Outside, Seung Gil approaches Phichit tentatively and says something that they don't catch. Phichit nods without looking at him. They sit in silence, the rippling water tossing soft, delicate light across their faces. After a moment, Seung Gil's hand steals out and brushes a lock of Phichit's hair back behind his ear. It's such a private gesture that Yuuri, Victor, and Chris look away.

"Please watch him," Yuuri repeats.

"It's a promise," says Chris.

By the time they leave the hotel to go to dinner, it's dark, and the nightlife is in full swing. Yuuri sucks in a sharp, awed breath; hears his friends do the same behind him: the Strip is _magnificent_. A spectrum of color pierces the darkness. The palm trees are illuminated from below, throwing enormous shadows across the towering and varied architecture, and people of every shape and ethnicity cram the sidewalks, laughing and staggering and taking pictures. The light from the Luxor cuts through the sky. Music swallows them in the tepid humidity, somehow shining in its volume. The flow of the crowd sweeps them along, and they have to grab for each other to stay together; Yuuri catches Victor with one hand and Otabek with the other. The contact is electric in its excitement and unselfconsciousness. Yuuri shivers, fluttery with intimidation, meek respect.

If he focuses too hard, he hears too many chiming slot machines without the clattering of coins. He sees lewd pamphlets and cheesy tourist tokens, litter, a crackling undercurrent of menace. Then he turns to find Phichit's face lit with pure, childlike joy, and he grins too, won over. _Vegas, baby_. He relieves JJ of wheelchair duty and steers Phichit himself, letting the foot traffic carry them across the street to the Venetian.

Inside is a fresh day. The ceiling glimmers with blue daytime. Traceries and ornate arches adorn the faux-stone facing, and Yuuri hears laughter, singing. When it's finally quiet enough for them to hear each other, they all start talking at once:

"—heard someone say they're from Geneva, Chris—"

"—see that really bright light—? It was coming from—"

"—castle was almost as cool as the tigers. Fuck, let's go see the tigers again!"

That last bit is Yuri, of course, who is still a little teary-eyed. Otabek, loose from excitement, simply puts one arm around his waist and kisses him passionately, which makes Victor laugh and sweep Yuuri in for a kiss of his own. He dips him and everything. Yuuri squeaks, but he manages not to fall by throwing his arms around Victor's neck and trusting him with his weight. When Victor pulls him upright again, Yuuri giggles, bumping noses with him. He runs his fingertips along Victor's freshly shaven jawline. He can already see why people find Vegas so romantic.

They eat at a delicious Mexican restaurant along the Grand Canal, then Phichit of course wants to ride in a gondola, but he starts fretting when he realizes there are both indoor and outdoor options. "Which?" he asks, wringing his hands.

"Both," says Yuuri easily. "I'll take you for the first one, and—"

"I get the second," says Seung Gil.

Moment of surprised silence. They both turn to look at him, then Yuuri sneaks a glance back at Phichit just in time to see his expression become softly pained in its hope and vulnerability. "Okay," says Phichit in a small voice. 

Seung Gil smiles—an actual, outright smile; it transforms his handsome face into something warm and bright and longing. He walks away to go pay the fare, and everyone—even Victor and Chris and JJ—stare after him, open-mouthed and a little flushed. "Who is that, Phichit, and what've you done with Box o' Bees?" asks JJ, when he's out of earshot.

"Are you _blushing_ , your Royal Straightness?" Phichit asks, deflecting.

JJ turns redder. "N-no!"

They all pair off for the gondola rides, everyone conceding the magic, even though some of them have already been to actual Venice. "Sometimes you just want the knockoff," says Phichit, as Victor and Yuuri help him into the boat. "Like that weird spray cheese stuff, or the concert rip where you can hear everyone screaming and having fun." 

"Thank you for comparing my home city to spray cheese," says the gondolier. 

"Sorry!"

The gondolier serenades them as he paddles, so Yuuri and Phichit don't do much talking—mostly just hold hands and lean against each other and enjoy their time beneath the brightly-painted ceiling. It's otherworldly here on the water, strangely quiet. Yuuri stares at Phichit, something in his chest tugged painfully tight. _Don't let me lose this_ , he thinks, planting a kiss on the crest of Phichit's cheekbone. _Please don't ever make me live without you_. Phichit looks at him, then, and his eyes are damp and bittersweet and—and terribly resigned, somehow. Reconciled to something dark, in a place where Yuuri can't keep one arm around him.

Back in Detroit, there'd been a night, a Saturday: Yuuri had just gotten out of class and was toeing off his shoes at the door when Phichit swept him up and tangoed him across the flat in wide, dramatic steps, brows knit, teeth clenched around a wooden spoon. He'd just made spaghetti. He deposited Yuuri sloppily in the chair near the steaming pot and pressed their foreheads together, eyes dark with intensity. _Señor_ , he'd said inexplicably. Yuuri had responded by hiccupping loudly, startled, and Phichit broke character, nearly biting the spoon in half laughing.

Without Phichit, who's going to make limp spaghetti and do horrible accents and invade Yuuri's personal space with cooking utensils? Whereas Yuuri never imagined himself finding someone to settle down with, he's always known that Phichit was going to marry, was going to imbue a lucky spouse's life with joy and beauty and spontaneity and meaning. It's a guiding light in Yuuri's life, constant as a sunrise. Phichit is destined to save more than just Yuuri: he has the power to shift _worlds_.

How can Yuuri live in a reality where that never happens?

They pull back up to the dock before Yuuri has a chance to find words for any of this, and the desperation tangles there in chest, hard and unspoken. He steadies Phichit's hips as Otabek and Victor reach down to lift him out of the gondola. When he lets go, it's only so Seung Gil can carefully take his place, and it feels beautiful and emptying, like passing off a bride at a wedding.

"You two have fun," says Victor, winking. He offers Yuuri his elbow, and Yuuri takes it, watching with love and trepidation as Seung Gil leads Phichit to the next boat.

He has to swallow hard to keep from crying.

Victor notices. He strokes his bangs back, gives his temple a kiss. "Are you okay, my darling?"

"I think so," says Yuuri, voice shaking. "Just feeling a little overwhelmed."

Victor nods, smiles gently. He mouths something to Chris and the others over Yuuri's head, then begins guiding Yuuri into a quieter area of the square. When Yuuri's mind finally clears itself of its overtaxed static, he's sitting at a table for two with Victor's jacket draped over his shoulders, and Victor is gingerly handing him a ridiculously tall ice cream cone.

"Oh, Victor," he says, laughing. "You'll have to help me finish this."

"Eat what you want first," says Victor, grinning. He sits down across from him, one gloved hand still resting on his knee.

Yuuri beams at him as he shyly laps at the ice cream. God, how had he landed someone like Victor Nikiforov? It still feels miraculous waking up beside him, smelling his aftershave or hearing his laugh or even glaring at little flecks of water he leaves on the bathroom mirror after he brushes his teeth. Yuuri meant it when he thought he'd never be in a serious relationship. Now, under the clarity of the Venetian's daytime luminosity, Victor looks unreal in his radiance.

"You're so beautiful," says Yuuri.

"You," says Victor. He pretends to go in for a bite of ice cream and pecks Yuuri at the last second, making him fumble the cone a bit in surprise. "Oh, careful!"

"You're the one who did it," accuses Yuuri. They take a moment to catch up with the drippy cream, lapping it from their fingertips, the rivulets that have slipped down their wrists. Victor forgot the napkins. Probably on purpose, Yuuri thinks fondly, as he licks his lips and Victor gives him a lewd little smirk. A warmth diffuses in Yuuri's belly. He pauses, startled. It's the first spontaneous degree of arousal he's felt since the last time he and Victor were intimate with each other.

It makes his stomach ache again.

Victor must see this change in him, because his voice grows serious. "How are you?"

"I—I don't know. I—he—"

 _This should be fine_ , he realizes. This should be normal; it shouldn't be all tied up in complicated grief and confusion and self-loathing. Worst of all, there's guilt in it, too. Always the guilt. And for the first time, he _feels_ himself make the leap, feels the desperate, knee-jerk correlation between 'how are you' and 'how is Phichit,' _where_ is Phichit, is Phichit okay, why should I have this joy when he is trying to say goodbye to me—

He puts down the ice cream, taking Victor's hands in his and squeezing hard.

"Victor, I think Phichit—"

"Love, please, I'm asking about _you_ ," Victor urges.

"I know, I understand that now, but Victor—I think he's going to hurt himself."

Victor, mouth already open to argue, draws a shallow breath and pauses. His eyes narrow in thought, then slowly widen. "Why do you think that?" he asks, voice soft. "Did he say something?"

"No," says Yuuri feebly. He doesn't know how to explain it, but he's certain. He raises Victor's hands to his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please believe me, please—"

"You're his best friend. Of course I believe you." There's no question at all in it. Yuuri feels a hot wave of affection and gratitude swell over him, and he kisses Victor's knuckles again and again until Victor takes his face between his palms and kisses him still. They hold each other's gazes as they think. Victor speaks first, one hand resting tenderly at the juncture of Yuuri's neck and shoulder: "I see. This is why you asked me and Christophe to look after him. What do you suspect, Yuuri?"

"Nothing specific, but I know the intent is there," says Yuuri. "He kissed me, and it was all wrong, Victor. And the way he's been acting. His push to come here, I don't know, it's so—"

"You think he means to— _here?_ In Las Vegas?"

"Or shortly hereafter." Yuuri doesn't hesitate, even though it makes his throat seize up. "He arranged to meet up with Leo and Guang-Hong tomorrow night, so surely he's not going to—before then. We just have to make absolutely sure to be with him at all times, okay?"

Victor's quiet for a moment too long. "Okay."

Yuuri pauses, too. "Why did you hesitate?"

Victor licks his lower lip, then sucks it between his teeth, chewing lightly. He says, at last, "We can't watch him for the rest of our lives, my love."

"I know!" says Yuuri. He hates how desperate he sounds; he can hear it himself. He tries to calm himself with a few long breaths. "I know. I know that. Just until—until we can give him a reason not to, right? He—"

"Yuuri! Victor!"

They both flinch badly. It's Phichit, back from his gondola ride with Seung Gil, who's wheeling him along in the chair. Something seems different between them. They're both smiling, Seung Gil's face beautifully fond, and Phichit seems calmer and more natural, as if he's stopped compensating for whatever shadow it is that Yuuri keeps sensing in him. Yuuri glances at Victor, alight with tentative hope, and Victor slowly blinks back, clearly thinking the same thing.

_Seung Gil. _If Phichit and Seung Gil could name this confused, intangible thing between them, then maybe Phichit would have one more reason to keep opening his eyes each morning. God knows it's not that simple, and that Seung Gil should never have to shoulder the full weight of Phichit's pain, but at least it's another place to begin. Because Yuuri—Yuuri needs the light Phichit provides him. He needs his optimism, and beauty, and kindness, and strength—he loves Phichit dearly, in a way unmatched in its platonic purity, and something has to erase what they were forced to see that night; what they were forced to do—__

___No_. Yuuri stands up to shake off that thought, smiling and raising his hand to hail his friends closer. Christophe and JJ also have ice cream cones, and a little further back, Yuri and Otabek are grinning about something in a pink plastic shopping bag._ _

__"Yuri found a stuffed tiger in a gondolier hat," Phichit explains._ _

__"I'm gonna get one for every tourist trap!" Yuri proclaims. "A whole ambush of 'em!"_ _

__"It's not a pride?" asks Christophe._ _

__Yuri gasps, childlike in his good humor: "You dare question my tiger knowledge?"_ _

__"A group of Yuris would totally be called a 'squeal,'" says JJ, yawning._ _

__"Fuck you! A group of JJs would be an 'ego!'"_ _

__As they bicker, Yuuri and Victor link hands. Yuuri smiles up at his fiancé, swamped with helpless affection, and Victor beams back: whatever it is Phichit's facing, he's not in it alone—and neither is Yuuri. The Vegas air is charged and temperate as they head back out into the evening, tired but together, the lights from the Strip leaving soft, pretty spots in Yuuri's blurring vision._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for reading! I can't tell you how much the support means to me!! I do feel the need to emphasize that the next two chapters are going to be very intense, so please proceed with caution, and have an amazing, safe day.
> 
> https://smittyerenjaegermanjensen.tumblr.com/


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is a long, polarizing chapter; terrible things are said and done, and I hope you can forgive them all at the end of it. Warnings for attempted sexual assault, sexual harassment, drugs, violence, drinking, and language. I'm extremely uneasy about this chapter. I hope you understand its narrative significance, even if it's not traditionally enjoyable.

Otabek's original itinerary had them scheduled for Madame Tussauds or the Hoover Dam, but Yuri is aching to hunt down tiger merchandise at the Excalibur, so they all agree to go their separate ways and reconvene for dinner. JJ and Christophe sneak away to play poker at the MGM Grand. Seung Gil flies solo to see a museum exhibition, and Victor and Phichit, poring together over a pamphlet they found in the hotel lobby, decide they want to go shopping. And Yuuri—? Yuuri wants to take goddamn nap. But he powers through, wheeling Phichit through Fashion Show so he can effuse over the Coach handbags and Louis Vuitton timepieces and Lush lipsticks. He buys a deep mulberry one called 'Decisive.' Yuuri fights away a rush of panic as he pays. _Calm down. Not everything is a sign_.

Then Phichit starts buying gifts.

A handsome faux-leather phone case for JJ. Wallet for Otabek. Hinged, masculine bangles for Chris, scarves for Guang Hong, a little Swarovski crystal tiger for Yuri. "All this cash is burning a hole in my pocket," he says, forking over his card to buy a pair of sunglasses for Leo. "I just got paid for that little SKATING interview I did in November. It's fun, feeling rich."

"Don't buy us anything," Yuuri pleads.

Phichit winks. "Who's to say I haven't already?"

It all passes as casual until they reach Michael Kors, and Phichit starts looking through the colognes for Seung Gil. He settles for one that's quietly blue, sexy and sleek and springy with urban notes of bergamot. Nostalgic, somehow. Like a scent from a dream or a past life. Phichit caps the little rectangular bottle again and sits very still for a moment, eyes closed. When he opens them again, they are damp.

"Phichit?" Yuuri asks, reaching for his hand.

"Smells are so evocative," says Phichit. "This one reminds me of—I don’t know. Safety, maybe. Or innocence. There's a clarity in Seung Gil, don't you think? Hard like ice, but warm in the middle. Hot, even. Like a sun."

Yuuri still hasn't asked Phichit what he and Seung Gil spoke about during their gondola ride, but something has changed between them. They are soft with each other suddenly, and careful, as if something is possible now that wasn't before. Yuuri hones in on that, hopes it's enough: "You really like him. You could have a real future with him, Phichit."

"He's lovely," Phichit replies, noncommittal, but with tremendous feeling. He blinks hard, then smiles. "You know what I want? Ice cream! Let's go get Häagen-Dazs."

So they do. All three of them share their cones with one another—dulce de leche, coffee, and mango—and it's almost enough to cover the sour, scared taste in the back of Yuuri's throat. He keeps one hand on Phichit's shoulder as he eats. Victor has been watching them this whole time, silent and pensive, surely seeing Phichit's intentions as clear as day now that he knows what to look for. His expression is grim until he's addressed, after which he breaks into his easygoing, radiant grin. His friends' capacity for behavioral duplicity is starting to frighten Yuuri. If they didn't tip him off, how would he ever know how they're feeling? To what lengths will they go to keep smiling for him?

They're just finishing up when Phichit's phone chimes with its text alert (Yuri screaming to JJ, "Nice quad, penis-breath!" in Russian). He checks it with his free hand, then beams. "Leo de la Iglesia and Guang-Hong have landed in Vegas!"

"Already?" says Yuri, surprised. It's not even three in the afternoon.

"He says they took turns driving and only stopped a few times, so they're probably a little tired, but they say they want to meet up right away!"

Yuuri forces a smile. He's excited to see Leo and Guang-Hong too, and he's determined to keep up with Phichit today, but he's about tapped out on socialization. The joys of introversion. He glances at Victor, struggling to draw from his stamina, and Victor takes his hand and lays an understanding kiss on his temple.

They agree to meet back at the Mirage, where Phichit returns the wheelchair to the front desk and timidly asks Yuuri to fetch his crutch from his room when he drops off the shopping bags. Yuuri obliges, knowing exactly what this is about: he wants to downplay the damage to his body. This will be their first face-to-face interaction with any members of the skating community who weren't with them in Seoul, and it's beginning to feel like an audition—play this right; land the role of injured but unaffected friend. So much is riding on this, especially with how active Leo and Guang-Hong are on social media. Yuuri helps Phichit get comfortably settled against his crutch just in time for Leo and Guang-Hong to stroll through the revolving doors.

"Ayyyy!" Leo and Phichit shout at the same time. Leo swings his overnight bag off his shoulder as he approaches, and Phichit spreads his arms as best he can, catching Leo's firm, passionate hug so hard that his breath stutters out of him in a little gaspy giggle.

"Careful, Leo," Guang-Hong frets. He hugs Phichit more gently, eyes shining with emotion. "Phichit, it's been forever!"

"I know, babe! How are you? How was the drive?"

"Long," Leo groans. "We marathoned it. Wouldn't have stopped at all if Guang-Hong hadn't drawn the line at peeing into coke bottles."

"What can I say, I'm aggressively pro-plumbing," says Guang-Hong. He reaches over to hug Yuuri, then Victor, shy and starstruck. "It's great to see you both again."

"Likewise," says Victor, beaming as he shakes Leo's proffered hand. "Can we help you with your luggage?"

"Thanks, but we traveled light," says Guang-Hong, indicating his cute backpack, shaped like a fried egg.

Yuuri smiles, full of admiration. God, they're both radiant. They practically gleam with health and happiness, Guang-Hong's enviable complexion seamlessly porcelain, Leo's handsome, expressive face bright with affection and mischief. They're not even holding hands, but something in their carriage makes it obvious that they are together. _Took them long enough_. "Are you staying here?" asks Yuuri.

"Yep!" says Leo. "Got a pool view room."

"So you can creep on all the pretty boys swimming, right?" teases Phichit.

"Oh, you know it. Not that you're going to be one of them, looks like."

And here it is. Leo hesitates, eyeing the crutch, the strained, unpracticed way Phichit is leaning against it. Phichit fakes it well, but it's obvious that he's tired. Tired and altered, in an intangible sense that makes Yuuri wonder if he himself has changed, too. It's something in the eyes. Phichit's smile fades when he sees that Leo has noticed. They speak at the same time:

"Phichit, what on earth—?"

"Leo, it isn't—I mean, it's not—"

They both break off, tense, and Guang-Hong speaks quietly into the silence: "Phichit, Yuuri, we've been worried sick. Part of the reason we came here was to ask if there's anything we can do to help."

"We don't need help, thank you," Phichit says, laughing, before Yuuri can even shake off the anxiety at being directly addressed. "It was a bummer to miss the GP, but we're fine. Recovering splendidly."

"From what, though?" Leo presses, uncomfortable. "I don't mean to pry, but—your absences have been momentous. The community is in an uproar. There are actual conspiracy theories out now, and people are saying you're both retiring, and the photos from Korea were—"

"What photos?" Yuuri says sharply.

Leo and Guang-Hong exchange startled, uncertain looks. "You haven't seen them?" Leo ventures tentatively.

"No." Phichit's voice is suddenly humorless, flat. It gives Yuuri chills. "Show us."

They both reach for their phones, but Guang-Hong's loads faster. He navigates to one of the larger skating forums and clicks one of the threads— _club Seoul SUDS 12/5_ , it's titled—and silently passes the phone to Phichit and Yuuri. They crowd around the screen, Victor looking over Yuuri's shoulder.

 _They're blurry_ , is Yuuri's gut reaction. Blurry and distant, and poorly lit, and the red circles someone drew around key parts of the files only delineate the vaguest of human shapes. But if Yuuri looks close, really close—

It's himself. Sitting on the pavement, Victor's jacket draped around him, nose bloodied. Victor isn't visible in the photograph—thank god; his presence would've incontrovertibly confirmed it as Yuuri—but he still shakes with recognition as he scrolls down: another shot of him, standing with the help of a police officer. A medical professional folding a blanket around his hips. He doesn't even remember any of this, but there he is, and it's so _violating_ that it doesn't matter that you can't see his expression through the blood, that he could pass as someone else. He knows. He knows, and so do Leo and Guang-Hong.

The phone starts to slip from his hands, and Phichit snags it, scrolling fast. Yuuri stares with his heart in his throat: Phichit struggling to sit up. Phichit being loaded onto the gurney; Phichit with his arms crossed over his face, sobbing. He's blurred in the same dark, nebulous way Yuuri is, but his distress is obvious; private. Yuuri turns to Phichit, hoping to catch him before he cracks—

Phichit swallows, sighs shakily, and smiles. "Yuck," he says, laughing.

Guang-Hong numbly accepts his phone as Phichit passes it back. Leo is staring at him without expression, and Yuuri is frozen, so it's Victor who speaks first: "Phichit," he says, lost. "Phichit—Yuuri—"

"It looks worse than it was," Phichit assures Leo and Guang-Hong, still grinning. "Bar fight. Someone pushed me, and Yuuri jumped in, got smacked in the face."

"But what—?" begins Leo, then pauses and rewords. "You were clearly hurt more severely than that, Phichit. You still are."

"Sprained a hip," says Phichit breezily.

"You don't have to tell us the truth," says Leo. "But don't lie to us, Phichit."

Phichit quiets. His smile doesn't fade, but his eyes change somehow, lowering.

"We're okay," he says at last. "We're okay now. Thanks for your concern."

It's not enough, and everyone knows it, but Leo doesn't know how to push. None of them do. They're still standing there in silence when a fan approaches them and asks for pictures, and Phichit leaps on the opportunity, beaming. He leans forward against Leo and Yuuri. He hides the crutch behind him, and when the pics make it online, they're hashtagged with _#bbsallbetter._ Phichit reblogs the photos. He's still smiling half an hour later, when they meet up with the others for dinner.

"My North American brethren," JJ greets, and he and Leo do a weird little handshake-grab thing that Guang-Hong can't replicate. He kind of pets JJ's outstretched fist instead.

"Hello!" he says, blushing.

"Great to see you gentlemen," says Chris. He looks sharp as ever in a dark red button-up, glasses perched on his nose. "Dinner's on us, by the way. Jean-Jacques and I had a rush."

"Oh god, you've got him using poker slang now," Yuri groans to JJ.

"He picked it up himself!"

"Just like those trip kings," says Christophe, winking.

"Ohhhh!" JJ yells, pointing.

They spring for good old fashioned American on a rooftop patio a small ways off the Strip. A bluesy band strums Willie Dixon in one corner. The mood is mellow and friendly, globe string lights and ambient torches brightening their faces, and there's some wicked ribbing when Yuri's chocolate milk comes out with a bendy-straw. "Shut up," he says, flushing. "We can't all drink—what's that shit called?"

"It's a Pink Smoking Jacket," says Victor, taking a little sip and pushing it toward Yuuri. "Mmm. You'd like this, darling."

Yuuri tries it. It's good. Strawberry purée and mezcal and something sweetly gingery.

"Sangria's better," says Phichit, pouring Yuuri a huge glass.

"Aah, Phichit-kun, that's a lot—"

"At least it's not freaking Pinot Grigio," Phichit says, gently nudging Seung Gil with his foot. "Who orders that with a grilled cheese?"

"I do, apparently," says Seung Gil, but he's smiling his soft new smile. They're not holding hands, but only just; their fingers keep flirting against each other on the table between them. "Did you enjoy your shopping?"

"You know I did. Did you enjoy your weird human body museum exhibit?"

"Yes. I learned today that kissing fights cavities."

"That must be why Yuuri and I have such good teeth," Phichit jokes, but he blushes hotly at the long, serious glance Seung Gil fixes him with. He busies himself with his sangria. "Drink up, Yuuri. No one else is helping me, and we've got a whole pitcher to get through."

Yuuri sighs and obligingly takes another long draft. He hasn't eaten much of his actual meal, but the alcohol is nice today, soothing and warm and transporting. He leans against Victor, sleepy. His head is pleasantly heavy. 

It's not until much later that evening, when he wakes up in his hotel room with a massive headache, that he realizes Phichit only had one glass.

*

"Where is he?" Yuuri demands. "How could you let him leave without me?"

"You were quite drunk," says Victor uncomfortably. He's leaning against the doorjamb, watching Yuuri hurl clothes around the room, looking for an outfit that would get him into a nightclub. "Sweetheart, I needed to look after you, and Leo and Guang-Hong were with him. You said yourself that you doubted he meant himself harm while they're visiting."

"No, I said I didn't think he was going to—to—" God, he still can't fucking say it. He yanks his shirt over his head and throws on a thin, dark sweater, irritably tugging it up to cover his exposed shoulder as he fights his jeans off onto the carpet. The first pair of shorts he reaches for are small, studded. He pulls them on. "He could still mean himself plenty of harm, Victor! He went _clubbing_. He can't even stand! We haven't been out dancing since—a-and Leo and Guang-Hong don't know what happened to him; they don't know what to l-look for—"

"Yuuri, you need to breathe," says Victor seriously, without condescension. 

Yuuri tries, gulping in air, but he can feel himself hyperventilating. He sits down hard and knots his hands in his hair, struggling for breath. "Victor, he—he could be h-hurt—h-he—"

Victor kneels in front of him and clasps his hands inside his, kissing his trembling fingers. "Breathe, baby," he repeats. "In. One, two, three. Out. One, two three. In—"

He follows Victor's rhythm, gasping at first, then slowly getting the air properly caged in his lungs. He's shaking all over. When he's finally got his respiration under control, Victor embraces him, his arms firm and validating. He knows now how serious this is. "Did they at least say where they were going?" Yuuri asks weakly, voice muffled against the crook of his neck.

"No," says Victor, stroking his hair. "They left in quite a hurry."

"Like Phichit was trying to leave before I woke up?"

Victor's silent for a moment. "Perhaps."

"Fuck," Yuuri whispers. " _Fuck!_ "

He stands up and paces, trying to think. He doesn't have Leo or Guang-Hong's numbers. He's already tried Phichit a dozen times; he isn't picking up. Yuuri would be furious if he weren't so fucking _scared_. The fear twists his stomach, sending sharp, curling pains all the way into his head, and he's still _drunk_ , for fuck's sake—if this was a plan, Phichit executed it perfectly. Waited until Yuuri's defenses were down so he could shake him. He knows Yuuri would never let him go to a club, not under these circumstances—not when he's still denying the assault, when he can't even move without the aid of a crutch—

"Got them," says Victor.

Yuuri whirls. "What?"

Victor holds up his phone.

Yuuri wobbles across the room to grab it from him, struggling to hold it steady: Victor's on Leo's Instagram feed, and Leo is grinning into the frame, bookmarked by Phichit and Guang-Hong bearing colorful drinks and huge smiles. _#NIGHT OUT #THE BOYS #THE LIFE #THE DREAM_ , reads the caption, followed by a string of heart emojis and a location: _Club Enchante_ , Las Vegas.

"Victor," says Yuuri, but Victor is already dialing for a taxi on the hotel phone. Yuuri's heart sails with helpless gratitude, but only briefly: Leo is clearly drunk himself, and Guang-Hong's cheeks are flushed and sweaty, and Phichit is beaming with the unselfconsciousness of someone who's already three or four drinks in. His middle finger is up. He never behaves this poorly, for the sake of his younger followers. He's really gone. He's gone, and Yuuri isn't with him.

For one white-hot instant, Yuuri wants to be mad at Leo and Guang-Hong, but the fury turns inward almost immediately: how could they possibly have known not to take Phichit out? They were deeply concerned for him; the logical step would be to cheer him up. Beautiful, alluring, and—Yuuri is discovering—deeply capable of manipulation, Phichit is impossible to say no to. And how can Yuuri blame Leo and Guang-Hong when he himself hadn't had the courage to tell them what had really happened that night? It's an unthinkable horror; surely it wouldn't have occurred to Leo and Guang-Hong that Phichit had been raped. That he's still grappling with the trauma, that a club is the last place on earth he should be.

Yuuri studies the picture again, and feels his heart plummet: Phichit is wearing the same outfit he'd been wearing when he was attacked in Seoul. Not the exact clothes, of course—those'd been confiscated as forensic evidence during the investigation—but the loose, oversized top is the same; the color, the fit of it. If the picture showed anything below the waist, Yuuri knows he'd see silver leggings, purple shorts, orange high-tops with green laces. What does this even mean? Yuuri thinks, desperate. What is Phichit trying to do?

"The taxi will be here shortly," says Victor, hanging up. "Are you ready to go?"

"Ready," says Yuuri, but he stumbles a bit as he moves to return Victor's phone. Victor catches him, alarmed.

"Yuuri, you're still drunk."

"Don't make me stay here," Yuuri says, hearing the slur of his own words. "I have to find him."

Victor's lips thin, but he says nothing. He helps Yuuri outside, holding him steady while they wait for the cab, his hands warm and bracing in the Vegas December.

*

Club Enchante is not a reputable establishment. That's obvious from the moment they pull up beneath the flickering sign, the neon blue sputtering on and off, throwing eerie underwater light over its patrons. The line is filled with people who are already drunk, laughing and swaying and pushing. Yuuri's outfit is conservative compared to the leather straps and lingerie of the club's clientele. Someone cuts across the street as they pull up. Their driver brakes hard, yelling out the window, his voice joining the cacophony of car horns and throbbing electronica and too many loud, angry conversations. Yuuri leans across Victor, rolling down the window. A second later, his heart begins to pound with recognition. 

Leo and Guang-Hong are sitting on the curb outside the club. A cold tremor wracks Yuuri. _Where the hell is Phichit?_ Leaving Victor to pay the cab fare, he bursts from the car and rushes toward them, skidding to a halt just in time to see Guang-Hong pitch forward, mumbling something incomprehensible. Leo mops his bangs out of his face. His knuckles are scraped up, red, and his handsome face is drawn with tension. He's on his phone.

"Leo! Guang-Hong! What happened?" Yuuri demands, choking for breath.

"Yuuri, thank god!" Leo gasps, hanging up. He speaks quickly, curtly, one hand still on Guang-Hong's forehead: "I think someone gave him something. He had a different drink when I came back; this guy was handing him something. I shoved him. Turned into a fight and we got kicked out. Yuuri, please find Phichit—he was really, really drunk when we lost him—"

That's all Yuuri needs to hear. He eyes the entrance, feels a rush of frustration: the queue is huge, trickling down the street and around the side of the building. He starts toward the front of the line, ready to begin begging for a spot—

—then he notices the huge, dark-haired doorman giving him the eyes.

It makes Yuuri sick, but he smiles, sultry and hopeful. Lets his hips angle forward a little as he waves. The doorman beckons him closer, eyeing him appreciatively. When Yuuri's within arm's reach, he takes one of his hands into his own, stripping the sleeve back far enough to lay a wet kiss on it. Yuuri's skin crawls, but he keeps smiling. The doorman's breath is hot against his ear when he stamps his hand with the ultraviolet ink, gently fondling his ass through his shorts as he raises the velvet rope to let Yuuri into the club.

Yuuri plunges ahead, ignoring Victor's cry of alarm behind him. He smacks two twenties down at the front desk without slowing, takes one step onto the dance floor, and is immediately swept into the crowd.

It's one heaving, sweaty mess. Drinks splash as people grind; they're not even enough room to sway. How the fuck is he going to find Phichit in all of this? He calls his name over and over until a group of girls mockingly start repeating it back, then fights his way to the stage, struggling to keep his footing. There, he's finally afforded some breathing space. He climbs onto the steps to scan the throng. It's a big, mean mob. Everyone looks mad or drunk or both; Phichit's sunshine is nowhere to be found, even scanning for the telltale silver of his leggings. Yuuri whimpers, taking his phone from his pocket and dialing his number for the hundredth time that evening. Phichit's photograph fills the screen.

Someone taps his shoulder. Yuuri whips around, already on high alert, but it's one of the guitarists. He says something that Yuuri doesn't hear.

"What?" he shouts back.

The man yells back, points at Phichit's picture on the phone, then toward the back of the building where the restrooms are. Yuuri catches on. He inclines his head in thanks and shoulders his way back into the crowd, sweat pouring down his temples.

When he finally reaches the door, he has to really shove to get it open. Someone has lodged it shut. It gives after one hard, full-body thrust, and a heavy trashcan spills in front of him, rife with used condoms. Yuuri closes his eyes, struggling not to throw up. His feet slide in the litter as he rounds the corner, drunkenly clawing his way into the restroom—

Phichit is passed out on the marble counter, propped up against the mirrored corner of the sink. His throat sports a large, purpling mark, and there's a young man standing in front of him, unzipping his own jeans with one hand and tugging eagerly at Phichit's shorts with the other.

Yuuri's hearing fades out. His ears fill with a high, whining pitch, tinny and distant, and he feels himself walking calmly toward the man, legs moving of their own volition.

He kicks the guy behind the kneecap. Not to irrevocably injure him; just hard enough to take him down. The man falls, howling, and Yuuri shoves past him to refasten Phichit's pants and push his legs together. He cups his hand to Phichit's cheek. "Phichit-kun," he whispers. "Phichit, honey, please wake up."

Phichit stirs a little, murmuring. He nuzzles into Yuuri's palm. "Sleepy," he says.

"Do you need a hospital? How much did you drink, Phichit?"

"Eight," says Phichit dreamily, and doesn't elaborate. He smells vaguely of vomit; a good sign. He'd probably come in here to wash up and passed out, and the bastard had found him, lifted him onto the counter to undress him. There's no way Phichit could've climbed up there alone. His crutch is nowhere in sight. Phichit's eyes open slowly, then widen. "Yuuri—!"

The man grabs him from behind. Yuuri shrieks, but it's cut off fast as an elbow closes around his throat.

"Bitch," the man hisses, hauling him away from Phichit. "Teach you to fucking kick me."

He throws Yuuri against side of one of the stalls. It knocks the wind out of him; he gasps for air, scrabbling to brace himself upright. The man's got maybe six inches and a hundred pounds on him. He seizes Yuuri's chin and kisses him hard, and Yuuri struggles weakly, still trying to draw a good breath. When the man lets go of him, he slides to the floor. The tile is cold beneath his knees. The man runs a hand through his hair, stroking almost lovingly, then grips hard, yanking his head back. 

"Open your mouth," he orders. The front of his pants are still undone, and he fumbles his member through the slit in his boxers. It's fat, ugly. "Open it, whore."

Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut. Tears run down the sides of his face. He flails, fighting to remember some distant knowledge, something faraway he'd learned about this situation, this position—

He makes a tight fist and punches the man as hard as he can in the abdomen. The man lets go of him, wheezing, and Yuuri wobbles to his feet, kicking his right kneecap with all the force he can muster. The man drops, roaring in pain. Yuuri kicks him again. He's still heaving for breath, but he grips the corner of the sink, forcing himself to remain on his feet. _Stay above him,_ he hears in Seung-Gil's voice. _Don't let him get any height on you._ He steps over the man to try to make it toward Phichit, who is drunkenly trying to wriggle off the counter, but the bastard seizes Yuuri's ankle. Yuuri just keeps kicking. The heel of his shoe catches the man in the face. Yuuri watches him cry out, blood beginning to pour out of his nostrils—and feels nothing but rage. No regret, no pity. Just pure, unadulterated fury.

The man is down for the count, but Yuuri stands over him, a comforting coldness running through him. He kicks the man in the ribs. Then again. Then he lowers himself on top of him, straddling his thick waist, and punches him in the face.

It hurts. His knuckles scream with pain. But it feels _good_ , so Yuuri does it again, and again, and then the man's face is a blur of blood and he's sputtering in it as he begs and Yuuri vaguely hears the bathroom door open, the noise of the club flooding in behind him. He raises his fist. He feels very, very calm. But as he goes to bring it down again, hoping to at least break some of the man's teeth, someone catches his wrist and yanks it back.

"Yuuri, stop!" Victor gasps. "He's done!"

He comes back to himself very slowly. The placid, floating wrath seeps out of him, and he takes three deep breaths, and then he's just sitting on a trembling man who's covered in blood, scarlet soaking the collar of his shirt and dripping down into his ears and across his neck. "Please," the man says weakly. "Please. I'm sorry."

Yuuri begins to shake. Victor's still got his wrist, and he uses it to pull him to his feet, helping him step over the man and into his arms. Tears gleam in Victor's eyes. He grips Yuuri's face with both hands, squarely meeting his gaze.

"We've got to leave," he says. "You understand? We've got to get out of here fast."

Yuuri nods, trembling. He stares at his fist, bloody and bruising, and feels his stomach heave twice, violently. He staggers into one of the stalls and vomits. Victor's there in an instant with a damp paper towel, stroking his hair back, cooling his sweaty forehead. He sings softly in Russian, and Yuuri's throat twists in gratitude. _After all of this, you'll still sing to me; you won't let that part change—_

He straightens. He's still shaking, but it's manageable now, and he makes it the six steps to the door without help. Good thing, too, because it frees Victor's hands to catch Phichit as he finally squirms off the counter, crying out with pain.

"Yuuri," he mumbles, head drooping. "Yuuri..."

"Are you okay to walk?" Victor asks Yuuri. "I'll need to carry him."

"I'm all right," says Yuuri. His voice sounds strange to him, unfamiliar and serene.

Victor pulls one of Phichit's arms around his shoulders, braces a hand on his back, and scoops him into his arms. Phichit clings to him weakly, moaning, and Yuuri holds the door open for him as he carries him from the bathroom. The club's low, pulsing music is surreal, rumbling in slow-motion. They weave their way through the crowd, people parting for them, staring. No one stops them when they push through the exit doors. The fresh air hits them in a cool, humid wall, and Yuuri breathes in deeply, trying to stop quivering.

Leo has two taxis waiting at the curb. Guang-Hong is sitting on the pavement with his head in his hands, ignoring Leo's urging to stand, and when he looks up, his eyes are hazy and confused. "Yuuri?" he says.

"Guang-Hong," says Yuuri, seizing his hands. "Are you okay?"

"Strange-feeling," says Guang-Hong, slurred, then something in Chinese. "Tired."

"I need to get him to a hospital," says Leo. "Do you and Phichit need to go too?"

Victor and Yuuri glance at him, then each other. It's only then that Yuuri notices he's got blood spattered on his shoes and shirt, caking his fist, his fingernails. A rush of fear chills him. He could be tried for assault, if the man presses charges. He could be arrested. It was self-defense, yes, but the way this looks—"I can't," says Yuuri numbly. "I can't be seen like this. Victor, you take Phichit—"

"I'm fine," says Phichit, not opening his eyes. "I just need to sleep."

"Phichit—"

"I'm not leaving you, Yuuri."

Leo and Yuuri exchange a long, loaded look. "Take him back to the hotel," says Leo at last. "Take care of him; watch him for signs of drugs or alcohol poisoning."

"Okay," says Yuuri, and he helps Leo cajole Guang-Hong into one of the taxis. Before he closes the door, he hesitates, eyes welling up with hot tears. "Leo, I'm so sorry," he manages. "I'm so, so sorry this happened."

"Me too," says Leo. His expression is dead, but unaccusatory. "It's not your fault, Yuuri. It's no one's fault but theirs."

Yuuri knows who they are: the piece of shit who'd drugged Guang-Hong; the bastard who tried to rape Phichit in the bathroom. He nods. He's furious with himself, with Phichit for dodging him, even, but that'll have to wait until later. He closes the door. Leo and Guang-Hong drive away, and Yuuri waits until they're safely en route and out of sight before he moves toward the second taxi. He climbs in first and eases Phichit inside, cradling his overtaxed hips so as not to cause more damage. He's going to be hurting in the morning.

"The Mirage, please," says Victor. He slides into the backseat with them and closes the door, cushioning Phichit's head in his lap.

"Do not let that kid barf in my car," the cabbie snaps.

"He won't." And it's such a frivolous concern that Yuuri starts laughing, harsh and gasping and humorless, and doesn't stop until Victor takes his bloody hand and squeezes it so tight it aches.

*

By the time they reach Phichit's hotel room, Christophe and JJ have deduced that something is wrong from Yuuri's sudden, panicked departure. Otabek, Seung Gil, and Yuri are there, too, and Yuri hisses with alarm when he sees Phichit, lolling back into unconsciousness. "Lay him down," he says, swiping the bed clear of suitcases and clothes. "What happened? Was he drugged?"

"I think he's just drunk, but someone put something in Guang-Hong's drink," says Yuuri. "He and Leo are at the hospital now."

"What a fucking mess," says JJ, his voice so uncharacteristically soft and scared that Yuuri finally starts to feel his body again. Suddenly he's too heavy. His knees begin to fail him, but Otabek is there, helping him into one of the armchairs in the sitting room. They all gasp when they see the blood on Yuuri's clothes and hands.

"Yuuri?" Yuri asks, frail with terror.

"It's not mine," says Yuuri dully.

"What the fuck happened?"

"Guy tried to rape Phichit," he says. "I—I hit him. I hit him; I couldn't stop hitting him—I—"

He's falling apart. He starts to sob. Victor kneels beside him and pulls him into his arms, and Yuuri cries with abandon, the smell of blood metallic and cloying around him. God, all he fucking does is cry. He buries his face against Victor's shoulder, ashamed, but his friends flutter about him with blankets and tissues and glasses of water, struggling to help, utterly without judgment.

What has he done to deserve these people in his life? They're so wholly good, all of them, and somehow they genuinely love him; love him and Phichit in all their drama and fucked-up glory. They've been patient, present, understanding. They've followed them to Vegas, watched over them, considerately looked away when it was obvious that they didn't want to be seen. It's hard for Yuuri to believe that they've only really been friends for a few months. He would die for these people, and he knows they would do the same for him.

Phichit looks so pristine amid the white sheets. His face is peaceful, and his breathing is easy and regular. Seung Gil is sitting on the bed beside him, expression heartbreaking in its concern and affection. Yuuri has never seen him look more vulnerable. Phichit has done this to him, has broken through to him in a way that only he can. And for the first time in his life, Yuuri doesn't know if it's a good thing.

How could Phichit have thought clubbing was a good idea? He knew he was being self-destructive. It's obvious in the way he kept Yuuri in the dark about his plans; made sure he was drunk before taking off with Leo and Guang-Hong. The more Yuuri thinks about it, the madder he gets. This was his plan all along. He's trying to—to relive that night, or something. Recast it, reclaim it, somehow. And guess how fucking well that worked. Or—was he _trying_ to get hurt again? And if he was, why the hell did he bring Leo and Guang-Hong with him? Could Phichit really be that reckless?

He's bursting to ask Phichit all of this, but when he finally wakes up about three hours later, still drunk, Yuuri's mouth simply goes dry with fury.

"Boy, what a night," Phichit mumbles.

"What do you remember?" asks Victor. They're all stirring from uneasy slumber, gathering around him.

"Not much. Flaming drinks. Leo and Guang-Hong danced on the bar; someone tried to grab Guang-Hong's ass, and Leo threw a shot in his face." Phichit laughs. He's the only one, but he's too woozy to notice. "How did I get back here, anyway? Where are Leo and Guang-Hong?"

"They're at the hospital," says Yuuri. His anger is cool, even.

Phichit sits up now. It's not enough to sober him, but he focuses as hard as he can, eyes wide with concern. "Oh my god. Why?"

"Because someone gave Guang-Hong a date rape drug."

Phichit closes one hand over his mouth. His eyes glimmer with tears. "No. Oh, no. I'm the one who picked the club—I took them there; I—"

"Yeah, and why was that?" Yuuri asks loudly, without sympathy.

Everyone stares at him. He doesn't know if they're stunned by his hard, cold tone or what, but he doesn't give a fuck; doesn't back down when Phichit looks at him, his face vulnerable and miserable and full of self-loathing. "I don't know what you mean," Phichit begins, sniffling, but Yuuri steamrolls him, talking fast:

"I think you do. You knew this was a terrible idea; you left me behind on purpose. I don't know what you were trying to do, but to bring Guang-Hong and Leo into it? I'd say it was selfishness, if I didn't know you better."

Phichit blinks at him. "Yuuri?"

"When I found you in the bathroom, a man was trying to rape you while you were unconscious," says Yuuri. "I fought him off. He grabbed me. Tried to make me take him in my mouth. When I finally got away, I started hitting him, and couldn't stop. I hit him over and over and over again. I think I broke his nose. See this? This is his blood. I'm covered in his blood, Phichit."

"Yuuri," says Phichit, horrified. He reaches for him, but Yuuri pulls away. Victor takes his hands instead, and Yuuri allows that, squeezing back as hard as he can.

"So I just want to know why," says Yuuri. "Why you did something so monumentally careless, and why you put everyone at risk to do it."

For all his love of attention, Phichit doesn't like to be put on the spot this way. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He doesn't look around for anyone's help—they're trapped in silence now, unable to break in without escalating the conflict—then something changes in his eyes. Turns vicious. He's like a caged animal when he's cornered, and Yuuri's seen his claws before, but they're never aimed toward him. It tears into him when Phichit says, breezily, "Maybe I was tired of you hovering around me. Like, god, Yuuri. You're not my fucking mother. Do you just need something to coddle, since you're not taking care of yourself properly?"

Yuuri is speechless for a long moment. "I'm taking perfectly good care of myself," he says at last. " _You're_ the one who won't even accept what happened!"

"Not everyone got raped, Yuuri," says Phichit. "Just you."

And that does it. It's only a slip of wording, but it breaks something inside him. Yuuri stands up, walks over to the bed, and slaps Phichit soundly across the face.

"Yuuri—!" Victor gasps. It's the only sound in the room. Phichit takes the blow without noise, head snapping to the right, and then slowly raises one hand to cup his cheek. He stares at Yuuri for a long, shocked moment. Then his mouth hardens into a line, and he uses the headboard to sit up straight before he strikes Yuuri back.

He hits _hard_. Hits hard, and he's not done; he's already raising his hand again when Seung Gil catches it, wrestling him back away from Yuuri. Their friends are in chaos now: JJ and Otabek are shoving between them, and Christophe is reaching toward Phichit in comfort and confusion, and Yuri has grabbed Yuuri's shoulders and is steering him backwards toward the door. Yuuri expects Phichit to scream something after him— _fuck you,_ maybe; something full of poison—but he's dead silent. They both are.

Yuri successfully gets him over the threshold and slams the door shut. He's shaking like a leaf. Yuuri, by contrast, feels strangely sturdy.

"Holy fuck," says Yuri softly, panting for breath. He looks up at Yuuri, his eyes liquid blue, frightened. "Yuuri?"

"I'm done," says Yuuri. "I can't help him. He can't help himself. I'm finished."

Victor puts an arm around his shoulders and guides him back to his own room, Yuri tagging along behind them. They ride the elevator without a word, and when they reach the door, Victor fumbles the key card twice before he manages to get it open. Yuuri takes off his shoes and collapses on the bed. Victor and Yuri just hover over him, lips soundlessly parted.

"I'm done," Yuuri repeats. "I'm fucking done."

He rolls over to try to sleep, but his clubbing clothes are uncomfortable, and there's a weird sort of humming in his head, like a mosquito. It's like something is hovering over him, pestering him. He can't shake it. He lies there for a long time, tired and serene, and listens to the sound of a group passing by in the hall outside, laughing and swearing and chatting. God, he's exhausted. He doesn't think he's ever been this worn out in his life.

It's only when Yuri curls up behind him, gently spooning him with his small, thin body, that Yuuri begins to cry.

"There were two of them that night," he sobs. "It wasn't fair. I could fight one, maybe, but there were two of them—they were just throwing me around like I was nothing; they were grabbing at my clothes—"

The bed dips as Victor lies down in front of him, hands resting tenderly on his hips. He moves forward until their foreheads touch. Yuuri cries so hard it hurts, Victor laying soft kisses along his cheek, Yuri's breath warm and fragile against his back. Their legs tangle unselfconsciously. The three of them lie there for a long time, until Yuuri can finally speak without his voice fracturing beyond comprehension.

"I didn't want it, Victor."

Victor's lips shake as he kisses him. "I know, my darling."

"They forced me. I didn't want it. He just pushed me over. He forced it inside me."

"I know."

Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut. Tears spill down his cheeks, soaking the pillow. "I can't do this anymore. I can't. I keep thinking that if I just pretend to be okay, things will go back to normal. _Sex_ will be normal. But it's all wrong now; it's wrong, my body is wrong, life is going on around me and I'm in this little bubble where I can't hear and I can't speak and everything is way too heavy."

"Yeah," Yuri whispers. He nuzzles Yuuri's shoulder, his tears bleeding through his shirt.

"And Phichit. He's sick! I'm terrified for him all the time, but I barely have the energy anymore. Why did it have to happen to both of us? Why him? Why _me_?"

"There's no answer to that," says Yuri. "It just—fucking happens. And it's not your fault and it doesn't make you any less, but it feels like you were wrong, somehow, like you could've prevented it if whatever thing happened differently—"

"I was wearing shorts."

"Doesn't matter."

"I drank so much that night, Yuri. I was alone with Phichit, I was kissing him—"

"Doesn't fucking matter, Katsuki. You could've been ass-naked wearing a neon sign. If you didn't say 'yes,' it was rape."

It's so validating that Yuuri shakes from it. The sobs keep pouring out of him, and Victor and Yuri keep holding him, their embraces loving and nonjudgmental. He loves them so much. He loves them, and there's almost a measure of healing in it; it's been so long since he's been filled with more than venom, or the tremulous, terrified impulses he feels for Phichit. This is uncomplicated, and asks for nothing in return. It's the first time in ages that he hasn't felt compromised.

"Go to sleep," Victor soothes, lips touching his, faint and hot. "Rest, and we'll be here when you wake up."

"Phichit—"

"Don't worry about Phichit. We'll take care of it. Just sleep."

Yuuri's eyelids are heavy. He tries to stay awake, but sleep tugs at him, full and comforting and nourishing in the way it hasn't been since the rape. He lets his eyes close. He falls asleep between his friends, and dreams in bright, beautiful color.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for making it through this chapter. One more tough one ahead. Also, thank you very, very much to onepufflehuff for correcting a crucial semantic error! I appreciate it deeply!
> 
> https://smittyerenjaegermanjensen.tumblr.com/


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you deeply for your support during the last chapter. It was a really hard one to write, and so was this one. I hope it finds you well. Warnings for discussion of rape, suicide, and language. Have an amazing week!

Yuuri sleeps all day.

When he wakes up, it's dark outside, and Victor and Yuri are trying to be quiet as they laugh over a video on Yuri's phone. When they see that he's awake, there's a beat of uncertain silence. Then Yuri says, "Come watch this cat get stuck in a futon."

Instead, though, he goes to Yuuri, and Victor follows, and they bookend him there on the bed with their hands resting gently on his shoulders. They watch the cat video a few times, then get caught up in a vine compilation. Yuuri smiles a little at a kitten that nods off and falls into his food dish. Satisfied, Yuri pockets his phone and slips his arms around his waist, not acknowledging the embrace at all as he speaks: "Fuck, I'm super hungry. Do you feel like eating? There're a bunch of restaurants in the hotel, or we could order twenty-five dollar hamburgers from room service, orrrr— "

"No," says Victor firmly. "We are not going to quickly get McDonald's and then go visit the tiger habitats again."

"Uh, excuse me, I think that's _Yuuri's_ decision," Yuri snaps.

Yuuri smiles at them blearily. He has a massive headache, and his eyes feel terribly swollen. When he sits up, a cool washcloth slides off his forehead, and Victor grabs it and goes to re-wet it in the sink. Yuri helps him remain upright when he sways. His eyes are dark with concern.

"You look like garbage," he says.

"I _feel_ like garbage," Yuuri replies. He grimaces as Victor returns from the bathroom and presses the cold, damp washcloth against his face, dabbing tenderly around his eyes and cheeks. Yuuri's head hangs. Victor lifts his chin to give him a soft, clean kiss, and Yuuri chases his mouth when he pulls away, starved for affection. Victor kisses him again, once on each eyelid and twice on the lips. Yuri doesn't even pretend to be disgusted. He watches with apprehension and tenderness, hands folded over one of Yuuri's. Yuuri sighs, rueful and embarrassed. "Guess I was quite a bother last night."

"Not at all," says Victor, at the same time Yuri says, "For real, shit." Victor gives Yuri a warning look, and Yuri adds, "Not that you didn't have reason. You and Phichit, god; that was like watching a train wreck. I've never seen people hit each other like that in real life."

"I have to apologize to him," says Yuuri numbly.

"You both owe each other some honest, direct conversation," says Victor.

"Has he—have you spoken to him at all?"

"No. He's out with the others. They're going to a restaurant tonight; I don't suppose you'd like to join them."

He would rather die. Yuuri curls up into a tight ball, stomach aching, and Yuri lies back down to spoon him. He's wearing pajamas, Yuuri realizes. Otabek must've stopped by with a change of clothes for him.

What does everyone think about the confrontation? Do they hate Yuuri now? Their hanging out with Phichit is a good sign: maybe it means that they aren't judging; maybe they're staying out of it because they don't think it's their place. Yuuri can live with that. He's humiliated that everyone had to see him when he was so raw with emotion and covered in blood and—he glances down, and realizes that sometime during the night, Victor and Yuri have wrangled him into sweatpants and his favorite t-shirt with the subtle little rainbow on the sleeve. He wraps his arms around himself, eyes shut. Gratitude and mortification sweep him empty of feeling. He doesn't know if he has ever been this exhausted.

There's a knock at the door, startling all of them. Victor stands up and answers it, not undoing the chain, and there's a quiet moment of conference before he slips it shut again.

Yuuri sits up. "Who was it?"

"Leo and Guang-Hong. I told them that now isn't a good time."

"Let them in," says Yuuri, despite his fatigue. He needs to know how they're doing, needs to talk to them about all the things he should've said before. He sits up and uses a tissue to wipe his face.

Victor hesitates. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Please."

Scrape of the chain being undone. Victor opens the door and calls something softly down the hall, and a moment later, Leo and Guang-Hong step inside the hotel room, preceded by the delicious, full smell of Chinese takeout. Yuuri's stomach rumbles. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until that moment.

"Hey there, honey," says Leo tenderly, crossing the room to stroke Yuuri's bangs back and lay a light kiss on his sweaty brow. "How are you doing?"

Yuuri feels relief wash over him. Leo isn't mad at him for not warning them properly about Phichit's damages, though he supposes that that would've been unfair—it was Phichit's decision not to clue them in, to keep denying what happened. Leo moves to pull away, and Yuuri reaches out on impulse and tugs him into a tight hug, face pressed against his chest. Leo immediately begins stroking his back and rubbing his neck, fingers deftly seeking out the knots and kneading them away. God, Leo is such a _good_ person, wholly kind in a way that you're born with or you aren't. Yuuri relaxes into the embrace, feeling something painfully taut begin to slowly unspool inside him.

"I'm okay," says Yuuri.

"Liar," says Leo gently.

"I'm—feeling a bit ill."

"That’s a little better." Leo releases him. Behind him, Guang-Hong and Victor are pulling the coffee table closer, stacking it with takeout boxes and paper plates and plastic utensils. Guang-Hong's eyes catch on Yuuri's, and he smiles a sweet, nervous smile, leaning over to take Yuuri's hand.

"Are you all right?" Yuuri asks him, cupping his face in one palm. Since they've been getting closer, Yuuri has felt almost paternally toward the younger man, and Guang-Hong is thankfully comfortable accepting his familial affections. He nods.

"I'm fine, thank you. It was Ketamine, and it's run its course. No harmful after-effects."

"Do you remember much from last night?"

"Nearly nothing."

Yuuri swallows hard. His lips part after a long moment, and he draws in a breath.

"If you're about to apologize, we're all going to take turns kicking your ass," says Yuri, giving him a bracing shake, and Leo and Guang-Hong smile sheepishly.

"I wouldn't have termed it that way, but yeah, please don't say you're sorry," says Leo. "You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. Except maybe your outfit last night. Like, holy cow, Yuuri. Upstaging us that way when you were in distress _and_ drunk? What would you have worn if you were actually trying?"

Yuuri smiles, and it feels stiff and cathartic. "A crop top and my thigh-highs, probably."

Victor whistles, and Leo laughs. "That eros," Victor says, and hands Yuuri a plate, piled high with noodles and rice and breaded chicken. "Eat up, my star. You need to get some strength back."

The others pull up chairs or sit on the floor, and they eat in near-silence, Victor and Leo discussing the weather, Yuri complaining about the leeks in the noodles and stacking them on Yuuri's plate instead. Yuuri surreptitiously studies Guang-Hong. He doesn’t appear as unaffected as he said he was—there's a pensiveness in his eyes, a vulnerability—but Leo keeps one hand on his knee, and Yuuri is grateful that he has someone to talk to. He doesn’t get the impression that Guang-Hong is given to stubborn, damaging silences.

Then again, he didn't think Phichit was, either.

Conversation warms up. Yuuri begins contributing to the topics of ice skating and sightseeing, hyperaware of how life keeps rolling on; nothing has slowed down for him. They make tentative plans to visit the aquarium at Mandalay Bay together. He's almost relaxed by the time it comes up, and it doesn't tense his shoulders, because he knew it was going to happen. Yuri holds his hand in anticipation of it, and squeezes hard as Guang-Hong takes the plunge.

"You were badly injured, weren't you," he says quietly. "That night. You and Phichit were—hurt."

"Yes," says Yuuri. He feels calm. Panic just below that tranquility, yes, but Yuri's hand is dry and bracing, and Victor is staring at him with loving, encouraging eyes. He brings it out softly, and his voice doesn't tremble: "We were raped."

Leo closes his eyes. Tears bead on his lashes. Guang-Hong nods, folding one shaking hand over his mouth, and there's a long, loaded lull. No one pushes. Yuuri licks his lips. He feels safe.

"We went to a club in Seoul. I was very drunk, and Phichit was tipsy. We went outside for some air. There were three men there, and they began saying inappropriate things to us, so we tried to go back inside. One of them grabbed Phichit and kissed him. Phichit tried to pull away, and the guy threw him down the stairs. The other two grabbed me."

No one but Seung Gil has heard this before, and it's the first time he's saying it consciously, without the numbness or the alcohol or the adrenaline of that evening. He goes on, feeling a strange, sad smile tugging at his lips.

"I remember being scared for Phichit. He—he had no experience, you know? I think he only knew what the guy was doing in some vague way; he looked like he couldn't believe what was happening. I felt the same way. It was so surreal. They were—pushing me back and forth. Grabbing at me. One of them pushed me down and hit me in the face when I tried to get back up. He broke my nose. They pulled me up, and one of them—forced my mouth open. They made me—" he can't elaborate. He settles for that. "They _made_ me."

"Fuck," says Yuri, quiet.

Victor sobs wetly. Yuuri slides off the bed and sits down beside him, guiding his face toward him, kissing the tears that are slipping down his face. Their noses touch. Victor can't get his shaky lips still enough to kiss him back, and that's okay; Yuuri just holds onto him, relishing the newness of this, his being the steady one. He nuzzles Victor's cheek.

"The other man was on Phichit. He asked Phichit how he was liking it, and Phichit said something, insulted him somehow—so the man—he was too forceful. He fractured Phichit's pelvis. That's when everyone found us."

"Phichit," Leo breathes. His voice is strangled. Tears blink free; he swipes them away impatiently. "Will he skate again?"

"The doctor didn't think so."

Leo and Guang-Hong are holding hands so tightly that their knuckles are white. Leo shields his eyes, and Guang-Hong lets out a soft whimper, looking down so that his expression isn't visible. "That's why Phichit went so hard at the club. He thinks he has nothing left to lose." 

"Yes," says Yuuri. "I'm pretty sure he's planning to end his life."

And there it is. No frills, no euphemism—just the truth. Leo and Guang-Hong look up at him, horrified, and Yuri casts him a sharp gaze. "What makes you think that?" he asks. "And why the _fuck_ were you shouldering all of this on your own?"

"I've been talking to Victor," Yuuri assures him. He traces circles on the glass top of the coffee table, trying to sort his thoughts. "It's something in his eyes. Something about the way he's moving. He's trying to tie up all the loose ends in his life, with Seung Gil and you two—" he nods to Guang-Hong and Leo, "—and he hasn't reacted at all to the news about his skating career. Not a word about it. Yesterday we went shopping, and he purchased gifts for everyone. Like a final 'thank you.' He means himself harm, and I don't know how to stop him beyond watching him every second—and I can't do that anymore. I just can't."

"No one ever expected you to," says Yuri. He's still angry. "God, Katsudon, we could've all been helping you with this! You can't put it on yourself to be on suicide-watch twenty-four-seven!"

"I have no proof; I didn't want to spread rumors—" Yuuri begins.

"You know. You just know, and that's enough. No one is closer to him than you are."

It validates everything in Yuuri's heart that was still a question. He swallows, nods. "Thank you, Yuri," he says, his voice small.

"We should call someone who's with him now," says Yuri, ignoring that. "Tell them to watch him."

"Forgive me, I've already done so," says Victor hoarsely. He clears his throat. "Chris already knew superficially to be on his guard, so I filled him in last night. Told him—pretty much everything. I'm sorry, Yuuri, I didn't want to violate your or Phichit's privacy, but I needed him to understand the severity of the situation."

Yuuri floods with relief. He kisses Victor on the mouth, tastes his tears. "Thank you, my love."

"Where are they even?" asks Leo, glancing around. "Phichit hasn't replied to my texts all day."

"At a restaurant," says Victor. "It's in the Stratosphere."

"That's the tower?" asks Guang-Hong.

"Yes, twelve-thousand feet above ground. I hear it's very romantic. Some people call it 'the top of the world.'"

The top of the—

_Wait._

An alarm sounds hard in Yuuri's head, audible as an air raid siren. He abruptly clutches his chest, crushed free of breath from the sudden terror of it. Barely hears Victor ask what's wrong, hands on his shoulders. _Why?_ Why does that provoke such a reaction in him? Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut, desperately chasing something, some memory of that exact phrase—

His eyes fly open.

"Call Christophe," he says, too numb to feel the words leave his mouth. "Tell him not to let Phichit out of his sight. We have to get there _now_."

"Yuuri, what's wrong?" Guang-Hong pleads. He's already standing up, looking for his coat, and Yuuri wants to kiss him for his immediate acquiescence. 

"Phichit," Yuuri says. "It's going to be tonight."

It scrapes a match in everyone. They stand, Yuri retrieving his hoodie from the bed and going to the door for his shoes, Victor helping Yuuri to his feeet. Yuuri reaches for the phone to call a cab, but Leo pats his shirt pocket and Yuuri hears the tinkle of keys. "We can take my car," he says.

Yuuri nods. He can't feel his limbs. He struggles out of his sweatpants and into a pair of jeans, but he can't seem to get his jacket on, and Victor has to hold it out for him so he can thread his arms through. Victor is cradling his cell phone between his head and shoulder. Yuuri can hear the line buzzing. "Chris," says Victor, when he picks up. "Watch Phichit. Don't let him go anywhere alone." Chris says something, the low rumble of his voice confused but understanding, and Victor laughs humorlessly. "Yes, if we make it there on time," he says, and hangs up.

"Hurry, hurry," says Guang-Hong, voice heavy with tears. He's already standing at the door. "I love Phichit; if anything happens to him—"

"It'll be okay," says Yuuri—and hopes to God it's true.

*

Even on a Sunday in the winter, the Strip is packed, and they get caught in traffic. They make it as far as Circus Circus before Yuuri bursts out of the car and begins to run.

"Fuck!" Yuri hisses behind him, and there's a clamor as he unbuckles his seatbelt and races to follow him, Victor doing the same through the opposite door, but Yuuri doesn't wait for them. He melts into the crowd, and they get the hell out of his way. Small favors. He's breathless before his feet even hit the sidewalk, and by the time he reaches the Stratosphere, he's sobbing for breath.

He's calling Phichit over and over on his phone, but he's not picking up. Yuuri wonders what waits for them in his hotel room, where he hid the presents, if he left a note—

_Too many people love you, Phichit. Please God. Please—_

He gets stopped by security in the casino. "Wait," he begs. "My friend—he's—" but there's no way to really explain, and he stands there helplessly as they wave him down with a security wand. They take so long that Victor and Yuri catch up to him. They tense visibly when one of the guards pats him down, but it apparently absolves him of suspicion, because they let him go. They don't search Victor, but they insist on searching Yuri, and Yuri gives them a curt nod to indicate that they should go on without him. Victor and Yuuri proceed to the elevators, forced to move more sedately.

Once inside, Yuuri seizes the front of Victor's shirt, drives him against the wall, and kisses him with the full measure of his fear and desperation. He's terrified. This might be the last time he kisses Victor when things are normal, when his heart is whole. Victor seizes his face, kissing back with bruising force. The elevator pings just twice before it begins its long circuit up to the Top of the World.

Yuuri's ears pop. He breaks away from Victor, panting, fingers still curled between the buttons of Victor's shirt. He calls Phichit again.

" _Sa-wat-dee! It's Phichit! Please leave a message, and I'll—_ "

He hangs up. His heart thuds in his chest. After an eternity, the doors slide open, and he steps out on wobbling legs that can barely support him.

The restaurant is opulent. Maroon chairs and napkin sets decorate the tables beneath dreamy white lighting. Curved windows encircle them, and the dining area is rotating slowly, not quickly enough to be disorienting—patrons stare out the windows, their faces wistful, and Yuuri finds himself throbbing with a strange, dark longing even through his fear. He scans the room and spots Otabek at one of the tables, frowning at something on his phone. He stands up. Yuuri reaches him a moment later.

"Otabek," he says. "Where's Phichit?"

"Viewing the city outside," Otabek says. "Yuuri, what—"

Victor pauses to explain, so Yuuri slips away, locating the door that leads into the brisk evening. He opens it and steps outside. Immediately, he's struck by vertigo: he stumbles, equilibrium swimming, and stares at his own hands as his vision doubles. The city wavers eight hundred feet below him. It takes him a long moment to focus. Leaning heavily against the window, he staggers to his feet, and begins sweeping the deck for Phichit.

He spots JJ first, staring out at the city, eyes pensive. He doesn't notice Yuuri. Yuuri brushes past him—and feels his pulse jump in his throat.

Phichit and Seung Gil are exchanging soft, fragile kisses in the bright evening, hands linked. Their eyes are closed. Seung Gil's foot is braced against Phichit's, taking some of the weight off his bad side, and as Yuuri watches, Phichit's hand comes up and strokes the beautiful crest of Seung Gil's cheekbone. It's clearly the first time they've touched like this, it's so achingly frightened. Phichit whispers something, and Seung Gil nods, kisses him again, gingerly touching Phichit's hair.

It's beautiful. Yuuri is breathless. He feels hope throb in his fingertips. Has Seung Gil convinced him not to go? Could this be enough—?

—but now Seung Gil is moving away, reaching for the door and passing through it. Through the windows, Yuuri sees him head toward the table and pluck Phichit's coat off the back of his chair. He runs into Otabek on his way back, and the two of them confer briefly before Otabek seizes his arm in an iron grip. Seung Gil whirls around, face pale, his expression enough to stop Yuuri's heart. As he opens his mouth to shout, Yuuri follows his gaze.

Phichit has hoisted himself up and is swinging his leg over the railing.

*

The world stops. All noise bottoms out as Yuuri watches him, unable to breathe, unable to fucking move, and he feels a dim, distant pain as he collapses to his knees. The lights from the city below them double again, triple. _Phichit_ , he thinks. _Phichit, Phichit please, don't tell me I failed you this badly—don't tell me you're leaving me, I can't, I can't live without you_ —

—yet he's going to have to. His legs are too weak to stand. He makes it one slow, crawling foot, the way he'd crawled toward Phichit the night he'd been raped, before the man grabbed him and forced himself inside him. Before that man had entered Phichit. 

It's not fair. _It's not fucking fair_. Why did it have to happen to him? How could life have been this fucking cruel? How could it have stolen Phichit's incandescence, his beauty, his vitality; how could Phichit have been stripped so bare that he can go nowhere but down? Tears course down Yuuri's cheeks as Phichit takes a final, peaceful breath and begins to carefully navigate his second, injured leg over the handrail.

It happens so fast.

Christophe is a wind, a blur. He materializes out of nowhere and lunges for Phichit, catching him around the shoulders and driving him to the concrete. Even has the presence of mind to fold one hand over the back of Phichit's head so he doesn't strike it, but pins him brutally there on the pavement, even as Phichit shrieks and kicks and hurls violent obscenities at him. Christophe's hold is steel. Stunned tears begin dripping from his eyes, but he doesn't let go.

Victor skids outside with Yuuri, followed shortly by Otabek and Seung Gil, who shoves past them and staggers to his knees beside Phichit and Christophe. Christophe leans back, and Phichit flails upright, only to be caught again in Seung Gil's embrace.

"Let me go!" Phichit screams. "Fucking let me go, fuck, please— _please_ —"

A crowd has formed. Everyone is staring now as Phichit thrashes as if in convulsions, head twisted away, grabbing the railing every time he breaks one hand free of Seung Gil's grip. Seung Gil just holds him. Catches his wrists and brings them back to the center of his chest, folding them in, refusing to let Phichit go.

It takes Phichit a long time to tire. Tears smear his face, clump his lashes together, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Then he begins to wail. Deep, heartbreaking sobs that cut deep and fast, and Seung Gil is crying too, teeth clenched as he loosens his hold just enough to scoop Phichit into his arms. Phichit shoves at him, calls him terrible names. Shakes like he's fucking dying. Then he relaxes all at once, and Yuuri thinks he's passed out until he says, "Why?" high and harrowing, his voice cracking, and Seung Gil lays a hard, desperate kiss at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't know," he says, sobbing. "I don't know, Phichit. I don't know."

Victor takes one of Yuuri's arms, folds it around his shoulders, and hoists him to his feet. Yuuri almost falls again, but Victor catches him by the elbow, bracing him upright. Slowly, he walks him toward Phichit. 

When he's within reach, Yuuri falls to his knees. He doesn't know what to do, but Phichit does—turns and flings his arms around Yuuri's neck, his body too-thin and frail, crying hysterically. For some reason he's saying, "I hate you," a steady, certain mantra, but his fingers rake Yuuri's back as he tries to hold him tighter and tighter, burrowing, as if trying to crawl inside his body.

That's the last thing Yuuri remembers there. Holding his best friend cheek-to-cheek on that deck almost a thousand feet in the air, Las Vegas sparkling behind them as it begins, softly, to rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://smittyerenjaegermanjensen.tumblr.com/


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter took so long to write. I didn't anticipate how hard it would be on me, and hope that it was worth the wait. Thank you so much for your patience! I'm also sorry for missing review replies on chapter ten! It feels a little too late for me to go back and do them now, but I'm going to do chapter eleven replies now, and hopefully won't miss any from here on out.
> 
> Chapter warnings for consensual sex and references to rape and suicide.

Their first night in Detroit together, a Friday. Phichit and Yuuri silently walk to a nearby grocery store for spaghetti and dental floss. As soon as they enter the supermarket, Phichit gasps: "It's beautiful," he breathes, spreading his arms wide before the shiny displays of produce and meats and sodas. His dark hair gleams under the fluorescents. "Yuuri, have you ever seen anything so yummy in your life?"

Yuuri's not sure if his use of 'yummy' is a pun, slang, or both, so he just shrugs. He hasn't spoken much to Phichit except to introduce himself and apologize for his accent. He takes a cart from the corral and pushes it for maybe two feet before Phichit places a watermelon in it. Yuuri stares at him.

"Watermelon," Phichit declares uselessly.

"Do we— _need_ watermelon?" asks Yuuri.

Phichit hesitates, then sighs deeply, reluctantly fetching the fruit up against his chest and carrying it back to its stand. "I suppose n—Yuuri, look! Strawberries!"

This goes on for aisle after aisle. Phichit adds an item, Yuuri vetoes it, Phichit sadly puts it back and immediately finds something else to replace it with. Yuuri would suspect Phichit was pranking him if he weren't so earnest. He allows the strawberries, some bread, a single doughnut from the bakery, a block of processed cheese singles, and two bags of salad, but gently suggests Phichit put back the mini cinnamon rolls, the salmon cream cheese, the gigantic bottle of ketchup. ("Do you use ketchup?" "Well, no." "Well." "Yuuri, you're so practical! I love it!") Phichit's cheer is indomitable, and Yuuri finds a little flower of affection unfurling in his chest, mitigating just a little of his homesickness.

They're picking out cereal when they spot the wickedly handsome man in the Armani suit. He's not as attractive as Victor Nikiforov, but he's stunning enough that Phichit makes an 'eep!' noise, and Yuuri instinctively flattens himself against the rows of Cheerios, hiding. They glance at each other, blushing. Yuuri chews his lower lip: he was concerned about coming out to Phichit, but it doesn't look like that's going to be a problem. Phichit grins at him. Yuuri smiles back, tentative; so tentative. Phichit just winks, his eyes taking on a bright, new fondness.

"Let's get stuff for tacos," says Phichit. "I love tacos."

"Okay," says Yuuri shyly. "Me too."

They backtrack for ground beef, seasoning, onion. Somehow the mini cinnamon rolls end up in the cart after all. Yuuri is looking at salsas when Phichit says, "Oh!" and disappears suddenly, and Yuuri can't keep up with him with the cart, so he just stays there awkwardly picking out taco shells.

He likes Phichit, he thinks. Phichit is interesting and sunny and young—things that Yuuri believes he himself is not—but he likes that; likes the contrast that gives them. He didn't want a roommate, but maybe this will work out. Yuuri smiles a little behind his sleeve. 

The beautiful suit man is at the end of the aisle, debating between enchilada sauces. His biceps flex gorgeously under his tailored suit jacket as he pulls different cans from the shelves, studying them. Yuuri's throat goes dry, and he ducks his head, flushed. Gosh, if he ever had to talk to or otherwise interact with that man, he would melt into a little puddle and cry. He's relieved that Phichit seems equally intimidated. Phichit is confident, but Armani Man, wow—that dangerous, stunning creature—

"Tee-peeeeee!" Phichit screeches as he closes an unknown distance, and Yuuri whirls around—just in time to see Phichit round the corner of the aisle, spin artistically, and slam dunk a gigantic package of toilet paper into Suit Man's cart.

"Phichit!" Yuuri cries, horrified.

"Huh?" says Phichit, leaning past Suit Man to make confused eye contact with Yuuri. His gaze slowly refocuses, rises.

He screams.

"Sorry!" he shrieks, followed shortly by, "Good morning, teapot!" as his English short-circuits. He begins to run away, doubles back for the toilet paper, then charges down the aisle and snags Yuuri's elbow on the way, hauling him out of the baffled man's line of vision.

And Yuuri? Yuuri's laughing so hard he can barely stand. He doubles over, choking, and Phichit wails at him in protest, futilely trying to hurry him toward the checkout. Yuuri has to sit down. He wonders if he is going to pee his pants. Then, reluctantly, Phichit starts laughing with him, and suddenly the two of them are clinging to each other as if they're old friends, shoving and smacking at each other's arms, tears in their eyes as they sit together on the dirty tile.

 _Things are going to be okay_ , Yuuri thinks then, for the first time since he's come to Detroit. He has a friend, an ally. A really silly ally who mistakenly heaves toilet paper into the carts of extremely attractive men. And for whatever reason, Phichit seems to really like him, too.

Years later, he'll learn that Phichit adored him at first sight: "You don't know how shiny you are," Phichit says, and by then they're curled up in the same bed to sleep, hands linked. "You don't know how much light you put out; you don't even know you shine at all. Everyone wants to know you. You're a gift." And Yuuri doesn't exactly believe that, but he realizes that Phichit does, and it's enough to make him want to live up to it. Phichit Chulanont makes him a better person. He's never as good as he is when his best friend is beside him.

*

That much, at least, has stayed true.

*

They call an ambulance. They don't know what else to do.

Phichit is inconsolable. They manage to get him back down to the casino level, where Leo, Yuri, and Guang-Hong have just made it through security, and none of them speak when they see the state Phichit is in. There's nothing to say. It's obvious what has happened. Phichit eventually stops trying to fight out of Yuuri's hold, but he's crying so hard he's retching, and by the time the ambulance crew arrives, he has tired himself into near-catatonia. "He tried to kill himself," Yuuri explains quietly, when they ask. He and the others stare at him there on the gurney as a medic wraps a shock blanket around him, tries to get his name.

"Fuck you," Phichit answers, his voice distant.

"Phichit Chulanont," says Yuuri, and spells it. "We're tourists." His voice thins. "Please help."

The ambulance takes him to a nearby ER. Yuuri, Victor, and Guang-Hong follow in Leo's car, and the others arrive by taxi about ten minutes later, as the nurse at the front desk is gently clipping a plastic medical bracelet around Phichit's wrist. "Come back with me so I can get your vitals, sweetheart," she says.

They're just taking blood pressure and temperature, but Yuuri feels himself physically balking as they pull Phichit out of his arms. Phichit goes without resistance, and that makes it worse, like he's _trying_ to get away from Yuuri. And maybe he is. Sickened, Yuuri hastens to follow him, but Victor catches him around the shoulders and gently guides him back to the waiting room, where the others have taken up a row of plastic chairs against the far wall. The waiting room has aquariums. Guang-Hong and Yuri are watching the angelfish swim, blue light cast across their soft faces, and they look up as Yuuri walks up to Chris and bows deeply.

"Chris," he says, eyes squeezed shut. He means to thank him, but it seems so brutally insufficient; nowhere near _enough_. "Chris, you were watching him. You stopped him. You saved his life."

Chris tucks a finger below Yuuri's chin before he stands up, forcing him upright, too. He hugs Yuuri lingeringly, and Yuuri feels how badly he's still shaking. "Don't thank me yet," he says, his voice husky with emotion. "The hard part is in Phichit's hands."

*

Yuuri tries. He _tries_ , but he can't get Phichit to agree to the hospitalization; can't get him to even look at him. "Phichit, I'm sorry," he sobs. "I love you so, so much." Yuuri leaves then, sending in the doctor, and moments later, Phichit is involuntarily signed into the psychiatric ward. He doesn't acknowledge them as the nurse wheels him away. The doors clap shut behind him, final as a farewell.

Back in the hotel room, they find their gifts, all of them neatly wrapped in gold paper on Phichit's bed. He'd left two notes: one for Yuuri, one for the others. They don't read them. They reconvene instead in Leo and Guang-Hong's poolside room, where the water is smooth and lake-quiet. It's almost four in the morning. Yuri promptly falls asleep with his head in Otabek's lap, and Leo and Guang-Hong nod off shortly thereafter. An exhausting day, but Yuuri can't sleep: he feels like his mind is filled with the snow of a dead channel, full and buzzing and insistent, and when he slips out of the room to get some air, Victor smiles softly at him and does not follow. Yuuri paces the hotel corridors, arms wrapped around himself. He's cold. For some reason, he hasn't been able to warm up since the Stratosphere.

He's been wandering the hallways for almost an hour when he hears someone in one of the stairwells. Yuuri hesitates, but instinct tells him to open the door, so he does.

It's Seung Gil, sitting on the top stair. He clears his throat and drags a sleeve over his eyes when Yuuri sits down beside him, but it's obvious he's been crying. Yuuri leans up against him and waits for him to be ready to speak. Seung Gil is silent for a long, long time before he says, "On the gondola ride. That was when I told him I love him."

Yuuri nods, eyes stinging. He moves to hold Seung Gil's hand. Seung Gil allows it.

"He knew I liked him, but I think using the word 'love' made the difference. It became something different for him, then; something without expectations. He didn't feel like he had to pay me for it. He realized that what I was offering was his to take or leave."

"And he took it," says Yuuri.

"Yes. Last night." Seung Gil squeezes his eyes shut. Tears stream down his face; he swipes them away viciously. "However briefly."

"It wasn't brief," Yuuri says. "He's still alive, Seung Gil."

"He doesn't want to be. It's not my fault that he wants to die, but it's my fault that I couldn't give him something to live for."

Yuuri pulls back and takes Seung Gil's shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes. "No. Seung Gil, that's not on you. That's not on any of us. It's taken me a long time to realize this, but we aren't responsible for Phichit's existence. He has to want it, too."

"And what if he doesn't? What if nothing can change his mind?"

It's a question he never wanted to ask himself. Yuuri sags, lets Seung Gil go. "I don't know," he says at last. "If it were up to me, but—but it's not. It's up to him. His recovery."

Seung Gil seems to appreciate his directness. He straightens a bit, gaze distant. "I used to imagine myself retiring to a 'normal' life, whatever that meant at the time. A wife, children. Dogs. Quiet. I was—mathematical in my aspirations. I craved averages. Phichit was the first person who challenged all of that in me. When I was around him, I wanted to experience—more. I wanted to try the drink, touch his hips, laugh aloud—go to Vegas." He snorts softly. "Me, coming here, of all places. My coach laughed when I told her."

Yuuri smiles gently. He replaces one hand on Seung Gil's shoulder.

"I don't know if there's anything I can offer him that you or the others can't," says Seung Gil, "but I have to try. It's the least I can do to give back a little for everything he has done for me. I'll—I'll fly him first class across the world, if he wants. I'll buy him two dozen roses every day for the rest of his life."

"Don't do that," Yuuri advises. "Day lilies. Orange ones."

"Day lilies," says Seung Gil. He smiles a little, but it fades quickly. "Do they let you send flowers to the psychiatric ward?"

"I'm not sure. You should try."

They've been sitting there in pensive silence for about five minutes when JJ cracks open the door, hilariously adorable in a monogrammed silk pajama set. "Hey, there you are," he says. "We ordered breakfast. Come get some before Plisetsky inhales it all. Kid's growing like a tree." And there's something about JJ still being there that makes Yuuri's eyes well up again. JJ has perhaps the smallest stake in this, has since they started—but he's not leaving Phichit. They're all in this together. Yuuri hugs JJ as he passes him in the doorway, and JJ hugs back with a sigh that sounds like, "Hang in there."

Back in the room, all of his friends are passing out plates from room service, sitting in a large circle on the spacious floor of the hotel room. Yuuri's stomach is still too knotted up to eat, and he notices Victor, too, has passed on food and is staring out the poolside window instead. He steps up behind him and gently rubs his neck. Victor smiles without turning.

"Do you want to go back to the room and get some rest?" he asks.

Yuuri strokes a hand through Victor's hair. "Yes, please."

Victor nods, stands, and stretches. "We're going back," he announces. 

Yuuri's friends have no doubt noticed that he needs ample time to himself after events, because they don't give him any crap for leaving. Everyone looks utterly exhausted. Leo and Chris give him long hugs as he makes his way to the door, and, after a moment, Yuri does too.

"Don't stay up and freak yourself out," he says, swatting the back of his head. "Actually sleep."

"I'll try," says Yuuri. On impulse, he leans forward and kisses Yuri on the cheek. Yuri turns bright red.

"Fucking ew, Katsudon!"

"I love you too."

He holds hands with Victor as they shuffle back to their own room. They don't speak. Yuuri is pretty much beyond words, and Victor doesn't need to offer his support beyond his warm, loving grasp and the way he places his hand on the small of Yuuri's back to help him into the elevator. Something starts in Yuuri, something primal and foreign, like a guest who has been away for many years before revisiting. He's surprised he can still feel it.

The instant the door is closed behind them, Yuuri shoves Victor against it, kisses him hard, and lowers himself to his knees.

"Yuuri," says Victor, startled. "Yuuri, wait—"

"Let me, please," Yuuri breathes. "I want you." He unzips Victor's pants and lowers his briefs, liberating his thick, pretty member, which twitches with interest when Yuuri palms it and begins to stroke. Victor groans, low and throaty.

"Oh, Yuuri—"

"Love you. Need to be close to you." Yuuri kisses the shaft, pulls back his foreskin to lay another kiss on the tender tip of him, musky and dark. Victor is still resisting, gently navigating away, feverishly combing Yuuri's hair back from his temples with shaky fingertips.

"I need you to be safe," says Victor in a rush, eyes closed. "I need you to know what you're doing, to make sure you're—you're okay—"

"I'm safe. I'm okay."

"Do you consent?"

"I do. Do you?"

Victor licks his lips. Trembles. Nods.

Yuuri opens his mouth and swallows as much of Victor as he can. Victor lets out a long, harrowing, beautiful sound. It's been a long time for them. Before the rape, their coupling was voracious and frequent; something that hadn't really slowed down since their first time. Yuuri hadn't known it was possible to feel such attraction for a person, physical or otherwise.

He sucks Victor hard and eager, and this is nothing like that night—no impersonal in-and-out of it; no hauling him back and forth, no pain. Yuuri is desperate to show Victor pleasure. He pulls back, licks, kisses. Takes Victor back in, and Victor's fingers are back in his hair, stroking through it and tugging lightly whenever Yuuri finds a sweet, needy space. Yuuri bobs his head as he sucks him off. He has never been particularly good at this, but Victor loves it, loves him. God, what has he done to deserve Victor? Yuuri prays there on his knees with Victor in his mouth, _my life, my light_ , and Victor grips his shoulder; a warning.

"Yuuri, I—I'm coming—"

"Mmm," Yuuri mumbles in affirmation, closing his eyes, and doesn’t pull off as Victor comes down his throat, hot and thick and familiar.

Victor cries out. Tears sparkle on his lashes. When he's finished, he sinks down against the door, legs shaking visibly. He pants there for breath, and Yuuri crawls into his arms, snuggling into his chest. He's more than happy to fall asleep right there, but after Victor gets hold of himself, he pushes himself back to his feet and lets his fingers brush against Yuuri's erection. "Get on the bed," he whispers.

Yuuri swallows hard. He purposely finished Victor off because he didn't want to have him inside—not so much; not yet—but Victor's fingers are slim and teasing between his legs, and Yuuri finds himself going to the bed, whole body trembling with anticipation.

He ends up facedown across Victor's lap as he fingers him, the lube warming in him, delicious and slick and frictionless. It doesn't hurt, and doesn't feel dirty, either: Victor strokes inside of him with every motion, wetting his walls and whispering a litany of sweet nothings as he offers Yuuri pleasure after pleasure. Yuuri begins to cry. Victor sees and asks him if he'd like to stop, and Yuuri says no, _no please_ , rutting against Victor's thigh. "Shh," Victor soothes as he presses his fingers deeper, fucking him gently. "Shhh, Yuuri, you're okay. I've got you, baby. I've got you."

He finishes with two fingers in his ass and two in his mouth, Victor tethering him as he struggles through his first orgasm since before the rape. When he's done, he comes back down slowly, as if floating. Victor scoops him into his arms and lays him on the bed beside him, mopping him clean with a warm washcloth.

"Are you okay, my darling?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," Yuuri whispers. "Yes." And for the first time in a long time, he thinks he might mean it.

*

Yuuri and Victor do a lot of staying in for the next few days, watching television and making out and ordering room service while the others explore Vegas. Yuri finds a tiger shark plushie at the aquarium and texts Yuuri about a dozen pictures of it, delighted. That night, they leave their room to join the others for dinner: it's a lovely hibachi restaurant, and they take up the entire bar, asking Yuuri about everything on the menu before they order. The atmosphere is somber, but loving. Friends brought together by near-tragedy, persevering. All the legal drinkers order sake to share, and they've just finished toasting friendship when Yuuri's phone rings.

It's Phichit, calling from the hospital.

"Phichit," says Yuuri, and immediately the bar goes silent, everyone shamelessly trying to listen in. Yuuri feels his heart beating in his throat. "Phichit, is it really you?"

"It's really me," says Phichit. His voice is undecipherable.

Yuuri closes his eyes. It's been four days since his hospitalization, and they haven't heard anything from either him or the hospital. Yuuri has no medical rights when it comes to Phichit; doesn't have any access to his records or status. He was beginning to wonder if they'd ever speak again. Hearing Phichit's voice after all this time is like taking a long sip of cool water, fulfilling a deep, painful thirst in him. He could cry with gratitude from it.

He looks around at the supportive, warm faces of his friends, and holds it together, just barely.

"So how mad are you at us?" he asks.

Phichit is quiet for a long moment. "Pretty fucking mad," he says at last.

Yuuri thought it was going to hurt, but it doesn't. He finds himself smiling instead, small and sad. "I can live with that."

"Oh, you can, can you. How great for you." Phichit's voice drips with cruel sarcasm. Yuuri has never heard him sound like that; it's chilling. His eyes well up. Then, miraculously, Phichit softens: "I guess I'm supposed to thank you now."

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, Phichit-kun."

"No, I mean—I should. I should be grateful. I—I'm just not there yet. Can you f-forgive me for that? For—and for everything else?"

Yuuri licks his lips. He thought it was going to be harder than this, accepting an apology for what almost happened, but it's not. It's simple, really. The simplest part of this whole mess. "Of course I forgive you, Phichit. I love you with all my heart. We all do."

Phichit lets out a shaky breath that's accompanied by a smile; Yuuri would know that sound anywhere. It warms him from the heart out, and tears slip down his face. He catches them with a cocktail napkin.

"Come visit me tomorrow," says Phichit. "Visiting hours are every day from five to seven. Bring me my pajamas too, please. I've been wearing these horrible paper scrubs, and I can't say they do much with my complexion."

"Okay," says Yuuri. "We will."

"Good," says Phichit. "Yuuri?"

"Yes?"

Phichit hesitates. Then, softly, he says, "I was raped that night, wasn't I."

Yuuri's breath hitches on a sob. He nods, then remembers Phichit can't see him. "Yes, Phichit. You were."

"I—" Phichit begins, then coughs, clears his throat. His voice is wet when he continues: "Okay, Yuuri. I'll see you tomorrow. Bye for now."

"Bye, Phichit."

Yuuri hangs up. He knows suddenly, instinctively, that things will never be the same again—and that might just be okay. If it means that Phichit is alive and he understands what happened to him, Yuuri will take all the tension in the world. The only important thing right now is Phichit's recovery, and he's going to do everything he can to make sure it happens. He pours another round of sake, holds his cup high.

"To Phichit," he says.

"To Phichit," his friends echo.

They drink.


End file.
